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These days it’s different in the ‘hood

riddled with frets cuddled with kids

muscled over by apparatus at the gym

making mustard from roadside plantings

how did we get to a place we don’t want to leave?

The harvest of tunes inside the car produced

that city over there, listening to all periods of sound

simultaneously – that’s cultural progress.

That classroom protesting for anything goes

that fire burning houses is my fire too

could save a lot of sorting for heirs.

I’m torn about what to do with the fake arrowheads.

You can trick an American into feeling American.

Sharpen it, boy, the cresting is nigh

almost finished with this week’s blog

but you didn’t think it’d be the only thing saved

when the winds suddenly shifted.

Poems by Lawrence Bridges have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums, Flip Days, and Brownwood. He lives in Los Angeles.

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