January 7, 2017

Whisky sip,
smoke draw

across lips,
snow, 

St. Paul
and the Broken Bones — 
soundtrack sweet as
buzz: a breath of peace

before deluge and 
plunge, before

what soul is, where it
came from, who
holds it close, who
cannot grasp it, is
forgotten.

We sit, temporarily
satisfied in deep night,
sibilance outside as
one storm hisses toward
ending, as another
approaches.  

Another sip
of whisky. Another 
deep pull of smoke,
another song, and
at last,

sound sleep.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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