Litkicks Message Board Archive

Tantil's Number Seven Poem

Posted to Action Poetry




Even numbers are murky
spread even over long even doors
that even let the even flow of an even fog
into the even room
where my even lover is banked against a wall.
"That'll be three dollars sixty," she says panting, exhausted by drive through.
"Yes, yes it will be," I say
THANK GOD FOR AMERICA.
Even America has saved a day.