Oster Itch

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Yesterday a man with a gas-powered steel-brushed broom
cleaned the slab of concrete that we call our parking lot.

The trees spent the evening weeping over the noise,
and now a fresh accumulation of blossoms
makes the raw power of machinery seem petty.

I, however, will aim to use my blender symbolically.

I have an itch to explore the tension
between metal and mush,
between blossom and brutality,
between garden and city.

Osterizer has answered the call.

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