Poetry

She said But It Was Only A Small Hurt

By

         In line at the drinking fountain desert bus stop years

of complete blackness you bring back with you, circa, 1968,

that took me through several states, some of which I would have to ask

kind strangers to name so I would know where I was. But

that's no big deal. No one would medicate us in those days,

so we medicated ourselves, and

         back to the woman standing in line at the only drinking fountain

at the desert bus stop of veritable vultures, crying and talking

to her friend who also stood in line, and who consoled her

as friends are meant to, her arms draped over her shoulders,

saying sweet, quiet things into her ear, and then all down her neck and breasts.

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