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Image for post
Why doesn’t the food I cook at home look like this? Photo by Bogdan Vaskan on Unsplash

This poem came to me
In a dream of

baby hair
like the Hall & Oates song
I once heard, driving through
Ventura Highway, where the
sun shines

earnest and a bit too
too much,
you know?
I wanted to like her more than I do
but I do, when the crowds die down
and it’s just her and I, over cups of Cuban coffee,
talking the day away, talking about our dreams,
as if we were still 16, untouched,
untouchable, unknowable

every day in the back of my mind,
I pray I’m wrong about everything:
the empty rooms, the blood stains,
the furtive Clorox wipes, bundled up against
every overlooked corner

in my world,
we are playing in a field of daisies
as far as the eye can see,
singing Barbra Streisand songs
from musicals, where it’s still okay
to call your nicotine-stained fingers
yellow like Ho Chi Min

Posted in Uncategorized

Originally published at on October 23, 2020.

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