Tales of Youth Blvd

Poetry

Photo by Author

Paisley is a name
and a pattern.
In the way
that one of Patti Smith’s
roads were just a road
Riches and red wine.
Mercy and all that Blake.
I prefer angels
and gospel.
The closet cigarette
decades from
you. The menthol.
Closing the casket
so final. The end?
Didn’t see it.
Will never happen.
This is going to
cause anxiety and
bad dreams as when
I remember that first
evening sleep visit,
the one where
you told me there
was no need
to eat anymore.
I was very
concerned about this.
The reassurance
woke me up with
a hint of life condiment.

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