what we choose to remember
in the park on the hill
trees shade the monuments
to the dead, the killed
mottled sunlight hits the plumes
of a fountain, the breeze
carries mist down the hill
toward the center of the city
a man with twitching legs
smokes pot on a bench
in front of the courthouse
do this in memory of me
there’s a rainbow on the east side
of the fountain
I’m glad I don’t live here
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