I miss my girlfriend; my baby
What? You were expecting poetry?
They left on the same plane
in the same air.
The same smoke
from the same
pipe.
You were expecting art?
Here is the same dream
on the same canvas.
And the blues are too deep for
Coltrane's saxophone.
Tom waits on the corner
drunker than a Halloween
party on the fourth of July--
A picnic for my missing
lovers--her memory the appetizer,
his voice the main course.
Tonight its my baby and the music.
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