Friday, February 1, 2013


too often the late night
lonely sinner
reckons a life
in a brooding simmer
the wine recalls
what sorrow befalls
a plate piled with universal hurt
she don’t have to pick at
these sad bones alone
he pulls up a seat
scans the menu she’s been served
he looks for substance
in a present course
puts aside bittersweet
and says what’s for dessert?

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