still

Just after one, on a park bench

somewhere off the beaten path

so as to avoid the awkwardness of

pulling shirtsleeves to eyes

wiping away the shame of

human emotion

lest we be judged weak and worthy of cowardice

sun shines on my face, taking comfort in the knowing

one less bitter cup, eventually the grounds

dry up and plaster themselves to the sides

organic sandpaper

if only to have the grit and staying power

red wine on white sheet level of

can’t-wash-this-clean

a thousand pounds of soap wouldn’t put a ding in it anyhow

the out of reach tarnish

swirled around

but never gone

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