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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=558609" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>If She Wasn't Already So Far Away</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=558609" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Twilight drinks itself to sleep and I am<br>Here doing the same and yawning trying to picture the<br>Dusky clouds over the<br>Retiring golf courses and the teenage cemeteries, <br>And maybe it because that I am not even real<br>And had to sit tonight behind Romero’s house while his<br>Special needs nephew had his forth birthday party: <br>And I sat beside Alma and her mother<br>And her daughter: <br>And she wore the dress that I bought her last weekend at <br>The flea market underneath I-95: <br>And I got to do this until the man she lives with came in<br>And sat between us: he had fake diamonds in his ears <br>As big as a black man’s birds eggs: <br>I didn’t care: I went home and jogged so far I jaunted past<br>Where the drunks were fishing and into the rich man’s<br>Yards and still I jogged, and I jogged, <br>Thinking that I could still breath in the loneliest perfumes of Alma<br>If only she wasn’t already so far away.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>