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The rain should come through the door

but they're quick, even with knock-knees

and bent spines, filing in like termites

into a mound. I want to speak to them

but it's custom to be quiet

unless a reason presses itself upon us.

 And there are so many reasons

yet only on the recommended shelf,

or if that fails, up the escalator

where hope lessens a little bit more

the higher up the floor.