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man sleeping on a concrete bench between a great way named for a south sea that grows smaller every day as engineers in charge make it solid ground and shops intent on seeing that the world is small must have grown tired of looking for work in this place made for making money. It does, and he dreams. But his sleeping here can only be denied if you turn and look the other way. Eyes open, there is a man, spent, sleeping on a cold bench in the shadow of wealth, in the shadow of a world that does not know yet that it is dying of consumption. poem © Steven Schroeder image © Mary Ann O'Donnell
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