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Thursday Evening, a Jamba Juice:

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I hope it’s farm-to-fork. I hear that’s how one man can help.

Perhaps the sellers can inform, but sheesh.

I frequently review on Yelp.

Friday Afternoon, the break room: 

In the room the women come and go

Talking of D’angelo.

With “Have you heard his Black Messiah?

It’s worth a play or two.”

Saturday Evening, his apartment:

For I have known them all already, known their call:

Have known the evenings, mornings, times after work

I have measured out my life with Chipotle forks,

I know the voices braying, garbage all–

It sounds like Pitbull from another party.

I smell Bud Light. Dale.