KEITH WOOD


RED

When she calls at night
crying,
cold lonesome Wichita blue,
I tell her the same thing:
I never intended for this
to happen.
Never.

I should give up.
Forget the damn red head.
But it just ainít that damn easy.

She hasn't called tonight.
No dinner,
no sloppy kitchen dancing
or waking in the morning
with her delicate dreamed breath
on my shoulder.

The floor beneath me
will hold tonight,
my legs will stand strong,
my pillow,
dressed in her forgotten slip,
will give my arms something to hold
while I try not to think,
while I try not to keep aching.








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