you run a comb through your hair before you call her.
you start with, darlin’,
she interrupts, says, sometimes.
you hang up.
you mess your hair
and head to a bar,
all gnarled up and greedy.
you feel his hands all over her, finding persimmons.
you are loaded.
you are swinging around in the air, the wild baseball bat,
a dance called emptying the cash register.
you thank her for the lease.
you remember that beauty
is a puddle that dries up when the sun comes out.
the day is warm.
sorrow is a song sung
with no harmony.
you can sing it well
the more you practice.
-Derrick C. Brown
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