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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
Dec.2010
