3.27.19

Standard

I can think of nothing
that would please me more.
Rains over the square, the stores
with cracked windows and nothing to sell.
Something is amiss. I tread
this wicked length of street
with hand in pocket,
worrying about the good old days.

It all goes down… Down poorly-lit backroads,
barely paved, shaved atria, slivered mouths.
And then it comes back up
like so much half-digested food.

A new mood is in session,
a kind of regression that intends
to overstay its welcome and leave
all kinds of clutter in its wake.
New headaches and unfinished stanzas,
luminous tumors of regret.

Like a rumor, the moon slips
slyly into view, and I exhale,
gray vapor unspooling
from my brittle lips.

-r. miller

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