by Lorene Farnsworth
Wired in a city lit up like a prison yard—
With a night so bright that morning is a release.
Wrong number Australia calls to say good day and asks if people really live in NYC.
Well, I don’t know—maybe they don’t, I haven’t met a neighbor in five years.
Were you to leave a message, they’ll be here in the morning—
Maybe they could call you back on their lunch break.
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