slung

May 1, 2014 § 2 Comments

cold rain
flat beer
bologna bomber
and an endless
supply of
infinitesimal sorrows

I’m watching
a bird out there
on a cable
carrying on
like a drunken tenor

I notice neither
his aloneness
nor the downpour
seem to effect
his sense of melody
though, for all I know
he could be
bellyaching
about some such

me? I’m not much
for singing but
if you are looking
I can be found
on low slung days
sitting with my silence
nodding
in affirmation
as someone else
interprets the blues

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead

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