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Miles MAG
January 11, 2015
I could write a poem
that no one could tell was for you.
It would be about
light pink powdered protein,
heavy lifting,
and time spent dining and dashing.
Black and white flip movies,
coffee-stained,
torn, and wrinkled.
The sorrow of the pits, the violin pits,
along with the cellos’ drift.
Drift over the miles,
over the open country roads,
the ones that separate two apart.
His sweatshirt, wet with tears,
left to dry in the chill, lonely breeze.
© Emily T., Bethesda, MD
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