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Francie Lynch Jun 2016
Two sluggers emerged
From Louisville;
One fashioned from ash,
One molded from Clay.
One is The Greatest.
Ali.
The Greatest
Cori MacNaughton Jul 2015
Driving through Louisville
in a driving rain storm
at dusk
The seventh of seven poems written this morning.
Meg B Feb 2015
There is a fork in the road
where I veered left to merge onto
I-65,
and I spotted the same
bilboard I look up at
every day on my commute to work,
but now it was at eye level,
and I thought to myself,
*well, I guess that's what we call
perspective.
Meg B Dec 2014
I don't always like
(the taste of)
bourbon
but **** do I like
the way it can make me
feel;
that sting of warmth
as it slithers down your
esophagus,
and suddenly you know
all the best dance moves,
your voice hits smooth on
all the tunes,
your jeans hug ya just right,
and somehow the night
has become yours.
Too many bourbons and
**** I might get a little mean,
but just one or two
and I'm the most
proud-to-be-from-Louisville-
Kentucky girl you've ever
seen.
Meg B Apr 2014
The forest green of the trees
contrasts so greatly
against the soft pastels in the sky;
Did someone paint this neighborhood?

The odors of garlic & parsley
wafting from across the
charcoal street.
Hums of today's news,
all the latest gossip,
ooh'ing and ah'ing;
endless snippets of candlelight chatter.

Occasional dollops of light
peering up from sedans passing by.
Sounds of zooms
blocked out by the steady pulsating
of white earbuds.

Dogs yipping, sometimes a real bark.
Neighbors come and go,
reciprocating cordial hello's.

Street lights slowly coming alive,
for at 8:37, the sun has begun
its transition to slumber.

They always say,
TGIF, thank god it's Friday.
As day slips to nigh',
the crackles and pops of vinyl come alive
behind a slightly rusted window pane.

Tonight's secrets not yet revealed,
a couple strolls by
holding hands,
sipping coffees, decaffeinated.

A man drunk with regret
and a 40 in his belly,
he breathes a clumsy, "Hey."
Malted liquor questions,
their smell & sound, unmistakable gurgling.

Street lights now fully illuminated,
glances exchanged from
passer-byers.

He opens the car door for her,
and into the dusk they drive.
Vehicles come by in even
greater numbers,
and still searches the young man
for $9, a toothbrush, and a shower,
even cold.

Just another night of
just another day,
in just another city,
in just another neighborhood
on just another street.

Silence, loud, ominous silence,
filtering the senses,
the stories,
the magic;
Isn't ordinary   extraordinary?

— The End —