Sunday, November 22, 2020

After a call from an old beau

 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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