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December 21, 2002
Get out of the car into the cold DC morning Hear the roar of the leaf blowers, smell the fumes, Taste the gasoline on the air And wonder for the thousandth time Why they don’t do this the afternoon before. Trudge across the stone path and down the stairs Past the blue tables, covered in dust. Go inside, to your locker and your friends. You are clad in flannel pants and a uniform All short skirt and Steve Maddens And un-tucked shirt. Sometimes you walk around, talking To others, clad like yourself In sleep pants and short kilts and heels