Immortality can be the flower
growing out of a crack in the sidewalk,
a glass of whiskey left untouched
on the counter
that nobody dares to drink,
the stranger’s hand
stretching towards the last
remaining dog
on death row;
patting its head
and taking it home.
Immortality is the rowdy punks of the universe
imprinting themselves
into the sidewalks, the light posts;
like Kath at 16 years of age
walking into that store
with a bruised knee and a scar
running down her elbow,
blowing cigarette smoke on the cashier’s face,
calling him out on his bullshit,
and heading out
with a case of beer hanging
from her left arm,
undefeated.
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