A Hanging Of A Picture

in Prose Poems

Me, lacking color courage, afraid to hello a new hue. You, acquiescing to a bland bargain of worth tones and fair weather continuity.

Where went the pin-up pout? Who stored that glamour girl grin? Who purchased that settee that set our ways to nit pick the nick knacks but not notice that night-time is no longer the right time and the wee-hours no longer welcoming?

Once, when alone, we were the decor–together with little decorum. Rearranging each other and framing the moment.

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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