Monday, January 3, 2011

just a bit

the small boy fingers the keys of the piano,
the girl at the piano bench,
the rosy mornings when the girl sticks to the dampened sheets, still damp from the night before,
wondering when the disease will grow, what it will be,
how infected she really is
while the boy showers off the night
and aged men clutch close to their television sets, sulking their ears in the swollen sound
young jonathan rolls a joint on the cover of a vegetarian cookbook
and mother cries

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