poetry

crossed paths

he wasn’t at all
as I’d imagined
mustached, and graying
not at all– mindful
nor debonair
still, the years
left a familiar seethe
bulging, in spiking points
‘neath his veined skin’s
fraudulent indifference
when he told me his name–
I hadn’t mentioned
that I knew of him
or that I’d known her
or that I’d been aware
that she’d since
left him
but I wondered
how he could even stand
upright
after she’d left
that last time
when I’d been broken
at the spine
and the silver-antenna radio
listened to us speaking
tho never once– of the thing
and Steve’s gleaming high-hat
and insistent snare
tapped out a marching beat
and Paul sang
his soft-leather song
of the fifty ways
and of a woman’s kiss
and of surrender
and and of release
the radio
spilling secrets
into the air
as we went about our business
tho never again
destined
to cross paths

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Eric

I've come to write.

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