Poem for Friday, May 17, 2013

Vintage Love

We could be like a Motown song
that was recorded but never
released. Two parts soul in a
dusty basement studio:

You are in the corner lipping a
cigarette, the filter inevitably
rouged.

I watch the ashes scatter and tarnish
the floor to the crescendo of
trumpets.

*

After the sugarpies and honeybuns,
what we become is background
noise.