Post Road Magazine #26

Body, Body

Fred Marchant

In my opened, bare-assed Johnny I am meeting up again
with you my aging trunk, wayward traveling companion,
old trading partner, fat sleeping bag I carry with me south

in the winter, and into my dreams, you my ne'er do well
on a mule crossing the desert, old guy who keeps asking
for a swig, who soaks the sheets with worry, turns on me,

remains hard to fathom, easy to ignore, impossible to trust,
years since I first met you, since I tapped your shoulder,
cut in on this dance to oblivion, and asked you for a kiss.


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