Melancholy Hyperbole

Who knew? It was the night
before the world ended,
and we sat up for no real
reason, just talking.
Before I knew it, you were
sitting on the front steps smoking
all the cigarettes I had smuggled in
from Seattle. Rain dripped off
the rotting soffit edge and filled
the ashtray with water;
it was disgusting but we kept
smoking. There was little else
to say, so we smoked.
Is memory just a trick,
a dog-licked host, a slick
little biscuit, hairy and lost,
absent from its good golden box?
Is the litany I repeat
repeated more for its
resplendent sound than
for any appeal to your grace?
I doubt, Lora, doubt
that you have thought of
me even once in the last
ten years: in the last twenty,
even. Though I have
thought about you
every single day.
Your name is always the first
word I form–always the…

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