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We have become that cart, with the one wheel that sticks.
That one cart, that makes all the noise, but doesn’t move.
With a million strange hands upon us,
Coughing up their Tuesday conversations in the bread isle.
Smiling their sympathetic smiles,
As they watch us rot in the rain.
And rust in the sun.
Soon, we won’t be able to carry the weight.
We won’t hear the whispers,
Or feel their breath as they tell their stories to their acquaintences.
We will just sit,
Like broken things sit,
Until we throw what’s left away.