Word Mound

That city—
A dank barrel of sludge
A mound of words
And now the despair

You smell cigarettes on me
and guess which beer I bet
from the white foam
on my chin
fixed on this mountain of a man
who hasn’t worn off yet.
I wanted more from you, you know
that I wanted from you so much more.

On Friday
We’ll lie down on the beach and I’ll draw you out with a pipe.

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