Lost Poem by Stan Petrovich
Lost
Again, here am I
In this torrid clime.
In my pocket
Half a stick of Juicy Fruit,
Sweet though dried-up.
A gust of sand
Spins up the railroad track:
It is the end, again.
I find a cigarette
But have no match.
Looking about
Everything shimmers.
The only thing wrong with death
Is that is holds no desire.
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4/23/2024 11:36:38 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Brilliantly written. Liked this a lot.