there was a bathtub of fantasies, assumptions and intuitions, a kitchen table you might want to give a good scrubbing before setting down placemats, if-onlys, and always alone when the pup wakes me up
The phantasmal words never spoken,
for the table is empty,
the chairs never bare,
The house is hollow
I will miss the conversation
flowing smooth and easy
like blue notes through
the scratched brass trumpet
that birthed the cool
- Original content by Divine
Additional content assembled from works by Cee Williams and Mark Fleming
