the flamingos’ pinked
and rustled feathers,
beaks hanging like swollen bananas,
perry como spinning
in the living room window,
its own little swelling
crescendo of horns,
then the unmistakable
sound of the needle, raised
with the arm, crutched
on the plastic lever,
gliding above
the hills and valleys
in which his voice, the horns,
‘the days of wine and roses’
had been lost
and then forgotten.
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