Stooping Low
Madonna swelling at the Kilmore,
every girl a wisp of ungovernable smoke,
and vomit on my shoes as they threw me
out the door, addled and clueless as I was,
and, forgive me, still am.
I hit the tarmac like a warm can
but you stood at the step
and watched me breath,
and would do it again.
I was not swallowed by the dark
completely. An addiction way past taming,
you were a shocking case.
Copyright © Peter Devin | Year Posted 2022
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