See you anon

Writing a novel is such a task

words found somewhere on the bottom of a tin flask

one last drop to tie me over

give me luck with a fake four leaf clover.

The dead trees still live

on the icy snow

we pass the farms, the homes

trying to let the feelings go

but they knock

they hum

like the sounds of this train or a long lost battle drum

on a bumpy ride or a field of dead

drink coffee and hide

behind Gatsby’s bed

or samples of another book

about people I never knew

or ones that I want to meet

so I write

on this train

on my feet

on a chair

in my head

up the musical stairs

as long as I paid the fare.
Did you miss my words?

all these crying kids

buy sour cream and onion chips

and then the mirror on the taxi reminds

me of him

fills my head up with deceitful lights

take words and turn them into

the vast forest

spanning across our two provinces

flowing in and out of them as robbers do

trickery, lies and subterfuge

filled with sweet apple pies.

Show my boarding pass

I have 87% of Fitzgerald

can’t stop reading about Daisy

Tom and Jay

leave nothing behind

night has turned into day

your name on my lips

and hands tightly squeeze my hips

for the trees are whispering again

and I know

people like us

can only hear them

even from behind the glass.

I write the title first

it’s from the book

another route

and cable lines

keep us joined

stronger than poetry.

Grab my bags

I’m coming home

and I missed you too.

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