Poetry is not an art form I visit too often (audible sigh of relief from the back, suppressed giggles) but here’s one I wrote when a former girlfriend turned up, unexpectedly, at my workplace. I tried to write the poem in the shape of a woman’s dress.



She looked in through the saloon window,
a blast from the past,
her shame or his blame,
no honesty,
no trust.

Return to remind,
twist the knife,
salt the wound,
where drunks get drink
and lives are lived
and lost.

Two souls on crutches
a zimmer of their future,
alone with their thoughts,
of that glimpse in the dark
through a bar room window.



10 thoughts on “2SOULSonCRUTCHES

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