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Sunday Morning


I feel
like a crushed
cigarette
butt.

I wish I could
crawl
beneath a blanket
and dream

of the woman
who danced
in spike
heels.

She wore
handcuffs
for bracelets.
But

my room
will never again
tilt
just so

nor the sun
shine
with such
harrowing brightness.







2009, Ron A. Kalman
This poem first appeared in Wail!