Sunday After (Noon)
Christopher McGuinness
“She left me in May,” he says,
(and)
Takes a slow drag of his cigarette.
Its end trails like a comet in the
(orange)
Light of sundown.
“She’s up North now,” he continues,
(then)
“Indio or something.”
He speaks offhandedly,
(as if)
He isn’t lying in a million, shattered
Pieces on the blacktop.
He is finished
And I will get no more answers
Just the silence at sunset
And the ghost of Bob Dylan
Filling the empty air between us
On a Sunday drive.
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