you were dispossessed in Harlequin
array.
slanting downward,
those eyes of yours
winced under angel skin
strobelights.
as though to taunt
a final enactment,
you were tossed
onstage, a whiskey velvet
carpetbag bereft
of tag and owner.
some might call
you sad. I know
you simply as
the eleventh bandit.
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