Runcible Spoon

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My oldest friends.

 

grey skies.     dead flies.  

keep popping into coffee shops.    

emptying overflown cups.

vanish round the next absorbing corner.

one   stuck in the rut.    

a patch of afternoon shadow counsels the past.

catch up.    stick in the mud.    

tongue-tied.     dissipated

in the dust-clouds.    

of too long known now years when everything is

said and done and not before     when

the wall went up.    the first time I

went into my own coffee shop.  

sat at the table in the dark corner.  

opened up.

page turning the lost over in a book.