why, when tucked snugly into bed
nestled in my love's warm arms,
underneath soft, heavy spread,
with the air-conditioner's charms,
hot sighs brushing 'cross us both,
the cold, early-morning winds
rattle at the window soft,
unable to sneak on in
through closed windows and locked doors,
do i feel an icy chill,
spread outwards from wint'ry cave
that my savage used to haunt?
what could he that memory can't?
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the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
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for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
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