Two Caught in the Draft of a Door Ajar
We're mannequins peering from a storage
bin. We slouch across from
the "No-Food" paper sign.
Its message sags to a pulp taped to the shoulders
of a glass door. Shoppers,
incoming, their shared orange
squirts juice. Our mannequin-custodial
grins bar us from the lips' sweet 'oh'.
Crowdsourcing emboldens shame, our French kisses hung
on tangy wind chimes breezes tongue.
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