SIGN OF THE TIMES
By AD Winans
Market Street once
The queen of the city
Now a gaudy whore
Worn with time
I pass the Hamburger Palace
The home of the ninety-nine cent burger
Its doors closed down
Its windows streaked with grime
Inside streaks of mustard and ketchup
On the counter
A crushed soft drink cup
Lies in dirt
A paper napkin floating ghost like
In the wind
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