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Pickled Herring

08 Dec
Ten fish from India
	all 
	in 	
	a 
	row
on a hand carved wicker memento
presented as a token and a sign.

The brown one fell off
and hit the floor.
The glue got old, so
stick it back,
		or 
		   I 
                       fall 
			   too
 				from
where those that languish
on sewage-dump streets
full of goonda pimps 
and underage whores
with rat-eaten limbs
who daily swim dreary
in dead-eyed schools
pickled with raw 
toxic waste 
	who
            wait 
		to 
 	     know
a fisherman's care.




 
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Posted by on December 8, 2021 in Poetry

 

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