Sunday, August 4, 2013

Midnight at the Underground

The sad, sad strangeness of you lingers. 
I feel your little fingers. 
They quieted this crevice of the sidewalk; 
quieted the din of spit out songs 
and the sinking clinking of our drinking. 

Here's your unfinished drink 
and a cigarette you rolled 
looking like nothing so much 
as an angel lost in a Warhol film. 

Lucky glass; 
how unfair 
something unaware 
kissed you goodbye. 

The sad, sad strangeness of you lingers, 
returns though you do not.

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