Winter morning in seventy-eight,
only the cold knew what to do correctly,
the smell of grief like burnt meat
patrolling the living room.
Pain came steady as rain, let up for crying.
The air hurt, apples tasted dangerous,
water wasn’t for drinking.
Stoved demons roasted red,
the sky leaked yellow and white
behind the windows alongside the young.
Even the angels wore black.
And the chickens, they were just
decorating the wind, poor bastards.
"Good taste is the death of art." Truman Capote
Check in at The Cirrhosis Motel with your host, freelance literary loiterer and epicure, Dennis McBride
photo by John Hogl
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