the Sunday you came back from London.
we sat on cool grass in the shade
you said : like the Spartans at the Hot Gates.
i said : youd be the hottest chick at Thermopylae !
sunday brunch : bacon & egg roll from a gourmet Jewish deli.
you said : i like how theyve forgotten what kosher means
is it Hebrew ?
the picket fences painted pink.
a Chinaman bowling tailenders out on a dustbowl.
7 fer 92.
im trying to paint a picture of happiness
before the cloud comes in.
they came in.
in fast rolling cartwheels.
smelt like yr hair in the morning.
i am remembering all this in a great mall
where its always a perfect 21° under a thousand neon suns.
you are gone.
like the last wicket
middle stump out of the ground.
