Old Song

Some pretty girl in a small town
sits down at the piano to play a song.
Someone must notify the next of kin.
Someone must refuse to hear the bad news.
Some poor fool has to listen:

Summer again, for the children
as well as for the blind, like
a thousand wedding cakes crowded
into the window of a bakery.
Those
rose-pink pigs in their pen, prettily
awaiting death. The bad news
inherent in that, like

a cold snake slipping
through cold water, like cold water.

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