Laughter makes two girls bend in the street.
Two umbrellas open up into white lilies
and a little white terrier rolls over on the sidewalk,
she wants you to rub her belly
with just the back of your hand.
Call me when you get this—
like a whale a thought is swallowing.
Call me, though I probably won’t answer the phone.
I will listen, though, like it’s a letter from
a very far off place.
There is no pity in that
so-pink sky on this side of town,
waiting for the sift of Bob Dylan’s rain.
Until across the neon sign of the pharmacy it finally explodes,
and rain is everywhere and people squint their eyes,
like they are so hurt to the every single
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Posted by Robert Sparrow Jones at 8:58 AM
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