A Friday Pome


Another perpetual work-in-progress from the archives, horrendous formatting and all.


Shortened breath sweat beads
condensation on a pint glass —
the collar’s edge a deeper blue.
Doubled over labouriously
calloused hands on knees.
Too much.
Season premieres, Sunday nights.
Dog ends and grocery bags,
Fives and tens, aces and dice;
Bingo daubers and potato chips.
The lubricant of half-lies.
Trappings of life misspent
in the margins of a page
stained with coffee and mustard,
shimmering convenient translucence
beneath the dome light of an 89 Caprice.
Meaning gone,
besotted figures bled
through rage;
crumpled streaked on fake leather.
Blinding lights ringing,
falling damp to the pave
mouthing silence.
The speaker-bound voice
Finds no answer.


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