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.



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.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s