Saturday’s Poem. This isn’t a Poem. 

The Reader's Handbook

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Things are just quietly existing

like the stars in the night sky

and the leaves in the trees-

always aloof of plots.

There’s my typewriter-

quiet and heavy on my desk.

There’s a tumbler-

empty but for the lemon slices

that rest in the bottom

in a shallow slick of fluid.

There’s the smell of trout

sautéed in my favorite pan-

lemon pepper and sea salt to season.

There’s the taste of a cigar

still acrid on my tongue.

There’s the rumpled sheets

in our darkened bedroom

that smell of recent sex-

the air faintly humid

from our exertions.

There’s the soft curve of her hip-

her bare back to me

and her heavy breathing

rhythmic with slumber.

There’s a wind gusting outside

in the cloudless night

and stars shining beyond the leaves-

especially that red star

that’s been smoldering like an ember

on the southern horizon

for the…

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