Even the Smallest Paradise

by CJ Evans

The women in pencil

skirts spill from towers

and let down all

their disarming hair.

They hold caramel

glasses of whiskey

with sweet vermouth

as men with undone

cuffs speak something

secretive into the felt-

lined boxes of their

ears. The thunder

of planes is ignored,

and the four o'clock

flowers are fully

open. Their laughter

is a siren, echoing

among the buildings.

And they don't look

as the white parachutes

drift down to them

like dandelion seeds.



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