Midnight poem


We lay under a table, and her lips
were soft on mine, and then I kissed her scars
I find the mark of passion never mars
white shoulders that have known so many whips

-and she is dead. That party’s long ago
and one new year I waited here alone
and knew I’d get the call. And then the phone
rang, as so often. As it rings you know

another one is gone. We used to sit
on New Year’s Eve and drink and do each quiz
and that’s now memory. The glass of fizz
is flat and stale and gone is all the wit

she brought. And I must shed a midnight tear
and say, where are the snows of yesteryear.

About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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