the fewer the better
I see him in a diner indoors
but always outside the table
set with a red-check cloth and
an empty dispenser for serviettes
in front of him a glass not quite
in his hand rests for a moment
the ice quiet cradling sunlight
a dash of nicotine cirrus thin
above the fallen crown of his hair
behind him a string of false stars
offer nothing but distraction
the geological beauty of his face
weary as time in a desert
all our lost lugubrious saints
huddled under the shoulders
of ash-flecked jackets distance
in their whisky sour eyes
from nights spent sleepless
everwondering on what was
and what has been lost
lips thin on the endless cigarette
mouth paper-creased from
old laughter a slow chuckle
that shunts through the chest
and when it comes to words
the fewer the better
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