Written by: don munro

No note,
the bed unmade,
the milk, imprisoned in plastic,
left to grow solid on the kitchen table.
Winter’s gray made me insane, and
so I flew on steel wings to Buenos Aires,
where the air is humid and smells of unwashed
sins, and the angry sun beats down 
on oceans of grass,
and the red wine flows, 
numbing my Yankee brain.