poetry

Late December

“I’ll be back in town in late December. I’ve got to stop by to see you. You’ve been so much help.”

Her voice over the phone carried her decades, each a splintered-wood ship tossing on blue-waves’ ebbing persistence. Hoarse and smoky, she insisted.

She told me her daughter worked at the corner bar in town. All I had to do was to mention her name– and my drinks would be free.

“How old are you?” she asked, a question which was fifty questions, but really just one, and not the question asked.

I had to think on it.

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Eric

I've come to write.

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