Best Margo Poems

She is aware of distance,
a distance that replaces smooth with wrinkle,
that adds weight to where it once fell away,
a distance as controllable as a storm, as time itself.

It feels likes a rope thinning,
each frayed line of twine aims
to remind that no longer
is she considered fine...

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Poor Margo, she died in a tanning tube
her skin parched dry of blocking lube.
Said her husband with some emotion
I think it’s only fitting she be buried
with the bikini in which she died,
with a large supply of tanning lotion.
I’m confident that where she’s going,
she’ll want her...

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