The day
is wrinkled
and worn
like Saturday
evening’s dress
on Sunday
morning.
Don’t worry
sweetheart
the city
won’t tell
your mother,
and neither
will I.
birthday
6 days ago
"If you would be a poet, write living newspapers. Be a reporter from outer space, filing dispatches to some supreme managing editor who believes in full disclosure and has a low tolerance for bullshit".................. Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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