A Black Day
words are choppy
one afternoon like
a telegram
from a far country
they are old and
torn like an old dress
of a woman
seduced and raped
you ask how can
these words exist?
how can that woman
not exist?
you are with that
woman last night
she is old and
tattered
a broken memory
a choppy story
stuttering before
you and you listen
to this record of
history and you
cannot sleep and
you look at the sky
it is black and closed
and there is no opening
for the sun to come out
tomorrow morning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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