lovely ladles, idle – of mokume.
You never did call me on the phone, so I’ve
been stuck here in GMT minus four.
Free-flowing ceilings soothe inconstantly – the
central coastal upstate lowlands abide.
Then Boca Burgers and morning deadlines, maybe
some knife-hits (surely most ill-advised).
The heartfelt signatures forged by a
part-time phone-sex troubleshooter;
the southward-outbound trout, taking well to a
bit and bridle there after a while.
Soured buttermilk cat paw-prints, vinyl tile.
—Uproar: rib sandwich month is no more.
Overfed, under strain, chipping for more ice..
silence is the best news that we’ve never heard.
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