The Death of Fancy
Robert Lopez and Audrey Kessler

The sky is soiled, our souls are soiled,
Even the soil is soiled.

In Brooklyn we call this Tuesday afternoon.
We call it mixed greens, greasy vegetables,
Extra virgin olive oil.

Some clean the sky and till the soil.
Themselves filthy, determined, glorious.

A few walk briskly up Fifth Avenue
In freshly laundered clothes
And winter coats.

Warm, unstained.

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