The following piece was presented at Jersey City Writers’ genre event – Jersey Plums Poetry Reading. Please enjoy.
“I like the silver in your hair,” she said.
And then she showed me just how much.
Night slips itself into the next morning.
A leprechaun makes a lousy alibi.
We tell ourselves fictions ‘cause the nons are
way too real for morning television.
Netflix in the backseat of an old ’89 Mustang,
top down in the dead silent primordial winter.
She takes my hand, and that’s how
you know when the birds sing
only for you.