The Idiot’s Gift Each day’s the idiot’s gift wrapped in a fool's bow. Wise men rehearse words they will never know. Another hungry puppy wanting to be fed, another buttered roll before I search a bed. A roadside attraction for scrappy lost soles, a lifetime of looking and digging desert holes. And all those memory faces hanging mirror charms, blowing like beach sand their dusty smarms. Silence plays the tune, the boxing of the scores. Sunset holds the peace; Sunrise holds the wars.
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