VISIONS OF THE GONE

The CLOUD CHAMBER

 VISIONS OF THE GONE 122414

VISIONS OF THE GONE

 

Into the party, as I gravitate

To the rugs, a couple says hello;

Bob and Cinda, fisherman and mate,

I kid you not.  Bob rolls a joint real slow

From crumbled, sticky, bud deMéxico.

He passes it.  I take a hit and blow

 

The rolling smoke aside and then I cough

That I’m a grad student, and I know

Marine Biology.  But, I’m off

For this semester and I’ll tell my prof

That I will make it up.  (I know he’ll scoff.)

Oh, yeah.  So what?  The job market’s a trough.

 

Then Cinda rises up above the cloud

Of smoke where I am playing Philosophe.

She saunters to the kitchen where its loud

With jabber bent by turning heads; the crowd

Has eyes that open wide and then beshroud

 

Her brown hair and the soft and whispered smile

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