a pair of derbies

In a town like that, you keep meeting quite often
A boy with a bicycle on his shoulder
And a very tall woman wearing sunglasses.
They invariably ask you the same question
And go away along silent streets without
Listening to your reply,
Followed by a cloud of mosquitoes.
Even if they had an address, it would be invalid.
I don’t believe the sound of their steps,
I don’t believe their bare feet, the words
They forget to utter, the red skirt,
The pair of derbies, and other attire,
The little fingers pointing at pigeons and blackbirds,
Pointing at the moon that can barely exist overhead
When there is such a low death rate among emperors,
The rum they drink right out of the bottle,
The coins and cigarette butts they throw from the bridges.

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