Posieden
My mother’s pain followed me
that Summer,
like a June bug descending.
in a misty July reign.
Pervasive like a sieve.
Her inertia was infectious.
A muddle as I breathed,
in line, I was,
for a movie I
saw a million times
but
never got to see...
Gene Hackman combed his hair
to one side to relate a
tail of whoa!
Whoa!
Whoa, hold on there Gene --
it all falls from grace,
from providence!
They placed you on
that set in a bad
turtle-neck sweater,
such nasty foul weather,
tumbled that ship to flounder.
A mood turned upside
down.
But you didn’t
drown a sunder.
I did.
Awash in love,
from someone above;
it swelled to pull
me under.
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