Lucia
You call me
at one in the morning,
asking if we
can be friends now,
if enough time
has passed.
You tell me you think
I'm a good person,
except the word
"person" has too
many "r"s. I can see
you are making
an effort; you have saved
your last beer for the end
of this conversation.
I know it's right
next to your knuckles
on the table-- you keep
touching it accidentally.
I have so little
to say; I tell you
it's raining again
and the black terrier
you gave away
in June died
of cancer
last week.
3 comments:
Like this on a lot!
your work is a feast, perhaps a journey that began with a random click - and i'm almost afraid to travel too deeply into it tonight. i may not sleep until i've gobbled all the word miles like a sweet-toothed child.
oh. i should have studied; loved my books and rules - so that i could write this way, rather than in mad slashes of post teen angst without structure.
you have a gift.
Thanks, Michael, and Oniongirl -- welcome!
It was hard to keep it this spare.
Post a Comment