in Poetry

Well, this absence of tiny red hearts,
with a presence of snow salted gray,
and battling middle-age meltdown,
has allowed for some bittersweet work.

Thank God.

A seasoned relationship
dines on life’s rechauffe
with spices
unique to the union,
relishing the table talk,
always fresh, often saucy.

Shy the treacly desert.

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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