in Poetry

NO sweat, this deliquesce
as this summer Sunday
the ice
in my rocks glass, weeps.
For me?

my thirst overleveraged
a drought in arrears,
and as for a pity pour, or two,
I’ve closed that bar decades previous,
and learned to, speak easy.

About that juice
that serves just us.
A time share drip drop
of a vice sufficient
to buoyant our trespass
and tide over; misgivings?

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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