"I was an 8,"
She said,
Sitting on a parparet,
reading a map of downtown.
"I was a 9,"
He said,
Fumbling for a cigarette,
On shaky legs
In the morn.
Two old faces
Pressed in cement.
A hand-done engraving
on a french armoire chest.
Bodily noises, sun-flowered poses--
to the beat of a broken drum
"Hush," she said, a smile playing on her lips,
Its time to crawl back to bed.
-- Daveed L.
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