Careless

She was more than a little . . .
casual
Had a way of leaving her smile
in strange parts of the room
And you’d find it there
and think
How’d this get here

Was it her plan
to let the ghost of her perfume
Become entangled
with time
in this room
Or was she just a little too . . .
careless

Listen
No
Listen
Do you hear that
Echoes of her whispers
In the torrent of noise
we call Life
Lingering here
like footprints
leading into the desert

Quixotic as ever

William C. Burns, Jr.
matrix437@yahoo.com

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