Sunday Near Noon

she dropped in today,   out of the blue.     woke
me up with a hard knock like a cop’s on
my door.          bleary-eyed we gazed each other
to silence  . . .  coffee was offered but not
made   —   bourbon then out of the question,   beer
was hair from the wrong dog.          we shared a hug
lingering into kisses avoiding
lip-to-lip, conscious of morning breath gone
nearly to noon (I work second shift;   it’s
not a luxury laze).          before I was
fully awake,   she was out the door and I,
lately having locked myself out,     shied from
barefooted escort to her car   —   the moment
past,     but her perfume lingers to remind   .  .  .

David M Pitchford
19 August 2012


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