Poetry and Music

Saturday, June 2


His frown directed sweats
from hairline to temple and neck,
his eyes held fright
like a cup holds black coffee
in some overlit complicit petrol-station roadstop restaurant
intimating something
distasteful but untried;
bought out of habit
like an afterthought
insinuating itself into second nature.
The styrofoam of his collared shirt
stiff and mundane,
destined to be disposed of
with dregs gritting the white and
staining the armpits,
now lies crushed,
abandoned on his laundry floor.

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