Jo

On a bed that creaks, I listen to the rain, and turn somehow to speak, this is not my tune, I say, but my words aren’t new, the walls are washed green, a moon prevaricates, it knows where I've been, Paris and sunlit avenues, are not just a keepsake, but places I well knew, wrapped in a cotton sheet, I pull a long face, it reaches to my knees, outside is a Magnolia bloom, this bunk’s like a cradle, you can smell the Ocean, it’s a joy to squeeze, love from many lives taken, a manner so to speak, the times I’m great.