This is the day.

The smooth expanse of supple black leather that is my desk,
like a stretched and scraped skin left to dry and shine,
the biggest man you ever saw.
And the to-and-fros of bobbing heads from my window.
Tree branches like fingers
groping for that yellowing golden noose
of lamplight.

These are all I have left,
these and my old worn cassette player.
We had good times.

Perhaps I should eat a slice of butterless toast
and go dance new-born in the rain.
This is the day I forget about you.

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13 thoughts on “This is the day.

  1. My gracious. I love it. I’m speechless. Between you, “theair” and a few others I could spend the whole day looking at poetry blogs sitting speechless and many times breathless. You guys are good.

    Austin

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