Our yield

I saw her stumbling in places

that weren't meant for stumblers.

The lights were fair and forgiving.

Her face was there and as soft as the

air that cradled it.

We sipped our rum and cokes.

We tightened our laces and continued to stumble.

We drifted in and out of our own ideas.

We spoke of sex, monkeys and transmissions

that hung from trees in the meth addled

communities of Southern California

and there was a coldness throughout

the place as the tavern doors would open and close.


Ray Strickland

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