11/5 early morning slip-ups

strike you down.

The hunger is ugly.

Early smoke in the sunrise

beckons a call to the forlorn

finding company with

those that cast shadows and cloud

the windsheild.

 

Cold, Cold, Cold,

 

numb finger tips

tuning the radio dial,

searching for old solice

despite

the stuttering roar of the automobile.

 

I remeber her exploration with words,

confirming my existance

to be spoken to,

to know my failure in unknowing her.

Raven hair and sundry eyes.

She restates:

 

the same, same, same

broken refrain.

 

Spinning axises around condemns 

everything old is new again,

suffering a lonely respite,

gone like that lovely fog.

Old friend I can not stand,

seemingly she says:

you are eternal.