Eleven


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Eleven 29 o’clock in the evening and the room is still a mess.

Basketball shoes, running shoes, Gatorade bottles and 

Torn-up papers from last semester probably strewn across 

The floor like deserted strangers, unnecessarily flung into abyssal

Apocalyptic wastelands of trash heaps and garbage disposals. 

Eleven at night and there’s nothing to drink up but the Gatorade,

And the sounds of drunken relentless birthday sex ringing 

Across the room  from yesterday at eleven 29 o’clock.

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