The New Realism Poem by Jack Galmitz
The New Realism
When she talks
I hear her
four guitars off
maybe it's a viola
I could be wrong.
It's drawn across
the heart I'm sure
and rises up
as I lean down
and there's four stars.
I saw her before,
but where I can't recall.
Maybe at the mall
with her girlfriends.
She was taller.
And all to me
that was missing
from the décollage
of my appreciation
of (if you'll excuse the word)
being was in her.
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5/6/2024 6:58:24 PM # 1.0.0.1119
