How badly does
it want her to leave
with her little red laugh
the slammed door
a broken irreplaceable
and you (me) stinking
with a 4-day beard
eyes like a panda bear’s
whiskey again for breakfast
pages scattered about the floor
your (my) music on a loop
notes between the notes
and no job, no money
no holidays to share
outside of your (my)
own mind, imagine that.
© 2016 Rob Schackne
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