Untitled Poem by Elliot Fry
Untitled
As engines hurtled me forth
I saw on a chain-linked fence
A great washing-line divide
Of raucous colour
I jet to New York
While she hangs and dries
Outside a ramshackle fort
I wondered if my wake
Had sped the process
But that hardly made things fair
Between us.
Monday, February 18, 2013
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4/26/2024 6:09:23 AM # 1.0.0.1119
