I feel you on my tongue, sweet baby,
sweet sugar baby.
That postcard dated long ago.
It brings back and makes me cry
his cool back seat, spilled rum and coke,
his tongue's range of tricks
On the phone, he talks and talks.
I can tell he wants to meet.
But he talks and talks--it's so weary,
all those words--none make me teary
and that precocious tongue now
keeps its place in mundane things.
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