She looks slightly older today,
a pressed daisy.
Back home she killed the metalcraft
questions I intended to screw in
and shoved me into the limo
Or perhaps the fog that swooped
down on the city like risky cotton
stirred in her a rare fit
of earnest resolve?
It is late now and the typesetters
have laid the sticks
to mimic the warbled wishes of
a song thrush.
We wait for burgers and a big finish
under the J.G. Melon sign.