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To A Woman I Will Never Meet



You are
RIGHT NOW
sitting at a small round table
on an iron balcony
above a busy street
in a foreign metropolis
rubbing the spilled drop
of wine from your smooth thigh
with your thumb,
hearing the cars below
take turns trumpeting their excitement.
The sun is halfway down
and you are thinking of a thousand things,
and therefore of nothing,
certainly not of me.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.