Bleats the man on Church Street
Knock Knock to the biker and the car
Knock Knock to the woman with hair
That falls like a dress to her shoulder
And lifts with the slightest breeze
A wave hello of dream like yellow
Passing like a town car with no windows
Knock Knock in a voice of grain and dust
To the biker who does not stop
And the car that does not hear
And the woman whose hair is a dream.
Who does not turn her head.
Who does not nod her chin.
Who does not let him in.
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