Aug 252011
 

The exhausted wash of time travel
comes over your concave face
as I stumble and ram into your missus
through the abruptly open door.

Five years?  More?  Not a tick
has matured your memory of me
--my head pickled like a prize
cabbage consigned to a clay

Kim Chee pot in the plot out back.
A ramshackle string of Xmas lights
blinks the shape of Texas
around an untenanted yard

all tall weed.


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