There Goes The Baker
The echoes in cartoons,
The sermons in static,
How every chorus begs us
To wake, or vanish.
Maybe God is a director.
I don’t know.
But the script is too perfect,
And the extras too hollow,
Like the background forgot
How to breathe on its own.
There goes the Baker.
Popping pills in his blue buggy
with one red ball and another blue dangling from the rear view.
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