berryman
mr bones doesn’t
call
the cell
phone
anymore
and it has been eighteen days
since an email crossed the hot
mail pathways…
the lack of contact
persists…
so
mr bones dances…
a merengue…a polka dot
rhythm
and i don’t dare correct him…
because as soon as mr bones is made aware,
i will have to accept the destiny dealt me
washington avenue overlooks
a tribute to gravity
offramp offererings
tuesdays
no longer a retreat from the weekend…
mr bones sends for pizza
a false address given
lies down for a nap…
wonders
where the thirty minutes have gone…
dreams of merengues
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