Sunday, February 12, 2017

Park Blues (circa summer 2016)

Let’s tuck in our shirts

Lest this get messy

Food from Italia

And keychain from Spain

Us sitting next to each other, again.

Let’s blow off some steam (or smoke)

With a fanta, not coke

A chipped orange nail

In the bushes, a bloke

The bar stools and ash

A plane up above

 Hands rough and soft

Some talk about love.

The wasteland is empty and bare

And the smell of coconuts is still in her hair

The bag swings alone on a nicotine buzz

And destinations are reached.

 As they always must.


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