An April Gray Morning


The Sunday morning is silhoutte-gray

Sun is under the veil of heavy clouds

A tender breeze is blowing, s’times it’s a gust

What is truth I ask self, as I light my day’s first cigarette,                      

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the bread crumbs

Scattered for the pigeons, crows, sparrows to feed on…

Or

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the ghost

Of  some hazed cloudy morning…

Or

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the neighbor girl 

With brush in her mouth looking at the dotted trafficed road

Or

Me, this silhoutte-gray morning and the smoke around me…


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9 thoughts on “An April Gray Morning

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