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Seth Copeland



Bar shift midweek, living my best lie
drooling out sour tap hops
for boomer cops staying nextdoor
@ the Wyndham, some course on how Jesus
needs the kids sober & scared.
“Damn fuck straight,” blurts tall one.
I’ve heard him say this twice tonight.
They’re pinker every hour, talking shit
on shop, laughing heavier than flashlight stars,
pavement. Walking by I’ve heard SOC
ialism three times that way, like anti-prayer.
80s radio, synth darts & vocal lush,
send them back to winning
the big game or whatever fuckery
class hounds dream alive again 2
snuff the voice that tells them how fuckt
they’ve let it get. Between rounds: “No offense,
but your generation’s a bunch of —”
Eyes wet. Pint greased. I can see how
much he’s convincing himself, slow turn,
a toy you didn’t touch for a year & the battery
death rattle it wheezes. That’s it. That’s the look.
Other one just stares into the brass railing,
nodding. Yeah it’s me, it’s always me,
why a worn hog warped and caved smiles at you
from the polish, dull as a badge.

Also by Seth Copeland

Primer:​ Leaving Oklahoma

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