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Poem from:

Threads by Laurence McKeown

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Bogota, Columbia

McKeown, Laurence


Battered cars and trucks, 
too many or too close, 
vibrate the hotel walls
in downtown Bogota.

Between cotton sheets I lie awake 
in plush accommodation,
body clock at home in Ireland
at the breakfast table.

Hotel sounds are much the same
the world over.
Like prison sounds
they echo the lives of captured humanity.

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