When the cuckoo clocks out

by on May 26, 2022 :: 0 comments

The moon’s gone round
the cuckoo’s clocked out.
I’ve circled six summers without you.

But it all drizzles down
with this half pint of Hennessy.

You taught me the semi-colon
how to make sauce from tomatoes
and how to write from the gut.

Your cologne lives its life out
in the notebook I buried your sonnets in.

What began as a poem, morphs into a recipe
for ways to forget you
and that shirt that you left on my nightstand
full of sweat, sex, and Marlboros,
was cut into rags –
for cleaning the poop up
when kitty kat misses the litter box.

editors note:

A memento for misses. – mh clay

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