Chair, the room with
white walls
Come… sit down to fry.
My body balloons with
a fever
Mother somewhere, cries…
My man sits down to break-
fast
sits down to food-feast.
My body longs a drink to health
longs a sad sweet sleep.
Rest easy my man I drift
by-e
All hail your toast and jam,
I taste your last bit of Oran-juice
Such soft shoulders in my hands.
A flip of wrists; neck-twist,
feel sadness,
a Southern lady screams in pain.
I’m drawn away to face the
day
looks like a sky-rain.
All is lost my body tossed
on a cool linen sheet,
Must have been a dream my friend
One dreamed quick before I sweet-sleeped.
“It was in all the papers,”
said the man,
“So fine a Southern belle,
the same morning he was
fried, God rest him –“
-- he smiled --
“God rest him in hell.”
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