Marie’s Fried Chicken

I wanted to write a poem today having visited some old haunts with my family recently. Went to San Francisco; the best city in the universe. Walked those streets yet again, wife, kid, kid’s girlfriend, all in tow. What a great day. I wanted to write a poem. So be it.

Marie’s Fried Chicken 

There is a whisper
not too far away; promising redemption
without love or respect. It whispers.
God, how I hate that whisper. It’s loud, like
a wind machine lost in time, buried in
memories. Deep is the sound; quiet is
the hammer. Yes, pounding, but not harsh
just steady. Rain is invisible – actually not there,
just over my shoulder, breathing shadows. “There is
love,” so says the window-washer. He stays late without
being asked. He stays late because the whisper is not
his plague. He stays late, all the same.
All the same.

Talk soon.

 

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About stevewhitmore

Former award-winning newspaperman and broadcast journalist, both radio and TV, spanning three decades. Army-trained paralegal, court bailiff and prosecutor's lead investigator for the 8th Infantry Division's Judge Advocate General's Corp., Mainz, Germany. 1973-1975.
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