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Broom. Cats. &
Dreams.
By Rudolph Lewis
I tasted only a
spoonful, my tongue
deep in her cherry
wine, that blooming flower
was sweating dew
drops. Her words
struck me like white
lightening: she told me
some joker stole her
peach and she won’t
come back. Rain falls
so cold, so unkind.
God knows cocaine’s
out of style,
yet she's rambling,
waiting for a woman
with mean things
in her mind.
My love is down on
bended knees,
like a cliché on hurt
feelings, on loss
on wanting the
unaffordable.
I had her once naked
like a nymph in
1999 one Sunday
afternoon on Druid Hill
grass, the sun turning
red, I dropped down
like a cane on sweet
tender flesh
she said coyly “you
ain’t that bad”
and she took it pound
for pound. She
kidnapped me
screaming, shanghaied
on a rough sea for
eternity, my mind
shackled to her
loveliness, evermore.
We lowdown in the
illusive weeds
I grinding the blues,
dying in her, again
and again, into a streaming memory. |