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Sep 2014
Singing a familiar song,
she hangs from both legs
on the bars,
sundress fallen to ,
and one hand curled
around a cigarette.
I could see
my own reflection.

Then the tram,
she finds her way
into my coat
and prays for rain
that from the window
it would be like nothing
at all.
a canvas not yet
by an unskilled hand.

And under the pavilion
by the lake
she sprawls out against
the table, says take me
                                   here,
so that I find myself
against her stomach
drawing a figure eight.

I think of her
still.
Started as a free write. Still sort of editing.
Jory
Written by
Jory  Chicago
(Chicago)   
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