Maybe it's the angle
of the setting August sun
or the hole in my shoe
that let loose the tonic
or the bummed cigarettes
that go one way
though more than likely
it had to do
with all the hands held
on the sidewalk down Main
and the sundresses begging
to find a floor soon.
Saint Peter and I
have one thing in common:
We're both sick of standing
outside Paradise.
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