Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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Matt McBride



City of Hangover Sundays


You hear whistling from underground.

Mannequins, left outside
fuzz with mold.

The tombstones are soap.
In-between, inflatable sheep graze

as a copse of toddlers in pajamas
pick the sheep up and put them down.

Their laughter is the wind.

On the sidewalk,
glass snails leave smears of Vaseline.

You're not certain
if you're lonely.