Comment on this article

                       There's no way of knowing how things might have been

                              had the front room window
       in the house on the North Side
                          not been open during the rain,

                      had the wind that ferried the soy bean fumes
           from the factory down the street
                         not been pungent, wet and wicked,

                           shouldering through the curtain crowd:
                                                                       gusty, ghostly.

                   And all the while traffic transcending into singular splash
             and hush:                 one car at a time:              one only.

                 I love you hearing the drawing near through water, hiss and sizzle,

                             the crawl    away
                                              in dismal kiss.


 

Return to:

© 2001- 2012, Quill & Parchment Productions
All contributions are copyright of the respective authors