December 2006 - THE POTOMAC
Last Letter
Marge Simon
You phone an invitation
two decades overdue.
I find you already there
in a New York café with something
sealed in cellophane. "For a laugh,"
you say, lighting a cigarette,
but I'm not in the mood.
You spread a faded square
on the counter, I recall
the stationary I once used.
"So how are things," you say.
I ask why you cut your hair.
Birds on the wires,
a necklace of black stones.
We wear the color of these skies
on our skin, and the wind is old.
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