Who pays standup tragedians?

Standing on a streetcorner
making children sad.

The shade splinters sun
and my daughter from another room
spears me with a laugh.

I'm climbing the walls of guilt.
I feel the echoes
of your coming fury.

Every dying plant is reinherbated
growing sans boundaries:
just dirt.

One age, one stratum of stretching for light.
Of farting noises, ice cream cones
and springing eagerness for chocolate.

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