1 New Poem

Limey Lemon

You said, “silence is that ancient
virtue, a former ruling class’s
inheritance we spent on cheap
booze boxes instead; so, why
not drain those gold glint paces
here in arm’s length tonight?”

There isn’t so much a reason to
say no, the foil of
champagne bottle tops still
sparks late evening light in
bringing cold the past’s morgue rooms.

Yet, I hold back from lips,
from red-hued possibility.

Yet unready, unsteady in
emotionless clanging of street steel,
wet concrete.

There was more to these black
phases, fuzzy-tuned radio dial
bleat, than I could tell
in swelling tongue.

Yet thousands of pin-prick
destructions behind starched
shirt collars.

Yet thousands of unsolved
lives behind cream dress
hues.