You kept talking about death and nothing
until they stopped asking questions
tobacco fathered in Kentucky
from a cigarette litter
mothered in the cradle
with a black sock,
July’s first beauty.
With a crag crackled
hangnail hangdog
kind smile
you sang
your own haunted and gaunt song,
that fell through coat hanger lips.
TexMex at the Mint
a gentle voice drinking East Hollywood
In Dan Tana’s bar
guitar and harmonica greatness
a Mariachi gentle god
on Mulholland Drive
a retired astronaut
your doormat read,
“Welcome UFOs”.
Your face was an autumn leaf
that I wanted to hold
just before the fall
before you left,
before they stopped asking questions.
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Mark Tarren is a poet and writer who has recently escaped the big city and now resides in rural North Queensland, Australia. He loves to read, write love sonnets and drink red wine.
