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An Uncool Poem about Melting Beers
Red cones on the blacktop
August is a burning blanket.
Dusty crows perch on long dead armadillos.
The Chevys' air-con
chokes up a warm blow.
A Navaho in Ohio has phoned.
he needs to talk about his dead wife.
He will have cold beers.
I have my own beers
but go anyway.
The evening is electric and neon,
city roads growl like wounded samurai.
If I were a hermit crab
I would shuck this scorched world off
my sweating back.
All I really want right now
is to sleep naked on a mortuary slab
as cold Atlantic waves
undress my skin and bones.
Not dead – just revived enough
to be a friend of a friend
to the newly departed
and still cooling.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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