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Not Yet America.

 We are old people marching and yelling, waving signs we painted
   ourselves,
just as we did when we were kids.
The street never changes: drinkers watch from a bar, suds glinting on
   their
upper lips. A bald man is being shaved in a barbershop. The chair
swivels
toward us: how round those eyes are, in a face smothered under lather. A
baker in a white paper bag hat stares from a doorway, clapping flour
from
his hands. Behind an iron grille, a nun sighs and crosses herself.
Apparently we will always have to march, singing songs to keep awake,
calling "peace" and "justice" as if those gaps could
answer: in the
   numbing
cold, even in the night sky, in the empty quadrant of Scorpio.
There you'll find us, and the street too, since it stretches
forever. A
   bodega
with steel gates. A jiffy lube. A chainlink fence on which someone has
spraypainted the first stroke of the first letter of a name.

D. Nurkse's most recent book is Love in the Last Days (Knopf, 2017).

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Title Annotation:THREE POEMS
Author:Nurkse, Dennis
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 1, 2019
Words:217
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