Percent

One hundred percent and another
one for good measure
out of her humble basket she
gives me a generous bushel.

A tall glass half way full
of paradox stirred
with bent spoon I dropped in keys
one at a time until it was clear.

Dreams do not come in a boat
they drive in a car
as far from here and now as ghosts
looking for a sleepy bar.

Getting there late we crowd
across the back standing
you in front me surrounding
you like mouth on candy.

When love is the exception mix
sex with talk until
unavoidable soreness finds the fix
back and forth normal.

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About mrsorenson

all over the place
This entry was posted in poem, poetry, song and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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