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Feb 13, 2022 | Poetry

It’s a hand grenade

and gift wrap

pinecones and potpourri.

The tinsel wrapping around my thoughts and yours.

You want me to remember the time we took turns wearing my father’s pants

splattered with paint.

We called ourselves Raul, each impersonating a lonely man

passing through an unwelcoming town: two versions of ourselves

and someone else.

Not all that splatters is paint. Iron on

this gridiron is blood.

A graphite composite stains

the placemat. We feast on the mercy

of thought.

Your wrapping is my inspiration,

a gift I refuse to open.




(Artwork by Gary Schatzberg @garyschatz_art)


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© Richie Smith 

© Richie Smith