Boxing Day
M
Mark R Slaughter
0
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In my arm
here: a vein
fills the
antecubital fossa
Its partner gives a tram line:
they're nestled in
for life
And as I look down upon this purple pair
I beg them share
the secret
They won't
Happiness
I guess
- its ignorance warm -
isn't
Just the flesh
Comfort in familiarity -
my own perception -
No expectation
MY drive?
It's in the nascent smoke
of Cuban leaves -
presentation dried
Like the glass hanging from the hand
hanging from the arm I view
askew
brandyless
The head I bear
wells in heavy tear
slipping out a tale
of desperation
A remnant
of the day before
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012
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