You didn’t have a favorite color.
You had a minor disease.
And it was easier to wait around,
Then airlift in our supplies.

And I stayed around for eyes.
For the vagrant sidestreet promise of
Coughing wind in the desert heat.
You ended up contrary to any street
And tracked in by popular demand.

And I thought to myself:
I was not yet indistinguishable but distinguished.
New flame, old fame,
Cordite frames lovesick matches left out on the row.
I was strike stick pick always promised you so.
The only open phrase runs in parallel, you know.
The only low volume is parenthetical, you know.

There are still sonnets only nouns & syllables off.
You will not adhere to right syntax wrong.
I was long in the oh-4, fifth tooth again
And you were just these few years old.
© Adam Bresson