lochinvar’s fragmented love songs

going all the places i

never want to go

seeing all the faces

i don’t suppose i’ll ever know

looking in the mirror to make sure

i’m still alive

though mail no longer comes

to this address

looking down the years to see how

i will survive

your guess as good as anyone else’s

guess …

half a leftover life for lunch

cold as a second-hand sandwich

eight hours a day away from home

that girl in a roomful of men

half a rag-tagged kite is stuck

high in a dark, leafless oak tree

mug of tea has grown stone cold

bitter when reached its end


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