Surely,
says Abner,
you didn’t want her
to leave? That “Get out,
you make me sick,” it wasn’t
what you wanted?
Eh,
says Jeremy,
no,
not what I thought I wanted.
But the flour on her hands,
grrr…like sand, and all the time.
And I couldn’t stop coughing.
You’ve been coughing
since I’ve known you,
it’s the cigarettes,
says Abner.
Jeremy
pulls hard first on his beer,
then his short still-burning butt,
says,
Eh,
the flour didn’t help.
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Tags: poems, poetry, abner-and-jeremy
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