2 Night Stop: As He Talks To No One Else, Might She Understand?

high so high
as you type on corona lightly
feeling the talk in the silence
play across my shoulders
down my lower back
they have been gone
but ten minutes too long
and I have yet not to sit
just like your name
I had a Joe-lt at the do

my subconscious went walking
heel to toe on your shores
watched out kasino for jellies
watched out for sharks
watched out for the way
and still got lost

now I lament
as I stabbed my index digit tip
clearing the rez from my pinch
I’ve snapped the beans
already shucked the corn
now just stole a nip of wine
sitting by the typewriter side
in air conditioned coolness
the dry air evaporates
the moisture on my skin
taste the earth
and taste the fruit
tickles my palate
as it washes down
the Dakota Line

This entry was posted in A Year In the Ideal, by G. Collins Lankford, Books and Collections and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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