Tuesday, August 23, 2005



Cinnamon tea is a warming sound,
Softly dressing a silken minute
Delicious is such a pretty color
Lightly wrapping the quiet hours

It was 120 degrees under a hellish sun
And the dull blue cigarette smoke
Hung in a haze around our heads
On a hillside smelling of death
Which is the only smell in war
And you get used to it
On the day I packed
Most of my friend Michael
Into the bright green body bag.

I still see you in the chair
Your face a quizzical mystery
A shy smile asking do you do this often.
Felt worse than a penny dreadful
Wanting to hide among cheap novels
OH! Could I have run, I would
Damn the marriage,
To find affection on barstools
With desperate peoples.
Instead to face your friendship
That was a light to blind my whimsy
The memory cuddles like affection
Thinking of
Kansas, sweetness, and you.

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