Untitled Poem III

This time, I was given a National Geographic, some scissors, and told to write a poem about one of the pictures. I chose a large image of a man in a church tower looking out, over a street.


A flag-whip breeze,

Cool, sweet air,

Sweeps pastry, meat gravies,

Up in swift wisps

From the cafe below

Voices chitter secret,

Voices quick, cruel trick,

A secret? I'll keep it

For the couple: Her,

Pink-flushed and pursed

Him, bubbling remorse.

The story, they lie it

And I know it is true,

For the lawyer

In his dedraggled suit

Called upon the cafe, upon Her,

And she had no complaint,

At least about the lawyer

And the hand up her skirt.

But I keep their secrets,

I keep their lies,

I keep their placid faces and

Surrendered souls

As the couple calms, again,

And share their lone lives.

The End

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