in Poetry

I harbor, not hashtag memories
moments now losing their filigree
in a latticework of rot dry dock
a port whose purpose is past

and fast is the fade from
to a pedestrian walk back
of run-of-the-mill cache

and perish the pride
that can’t prevent
that erasure of clay
that made one’s


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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