fifty-seven.
But that was always
the rub —
how to softshoe eggshells.
Mom’s pale grays,
Dad’s fiery reds —
you could outrun neither.
Spark the Pall Mall.
Break the whiskey seal.
The dogs howl your name
in a room gone still.
Happy Birthday, Sis
fifty-seven.
But that was always
the rub —
how to softshoe eggshells.
Mom’s pale grays,
Dad’s fiery reds —
you could outrun neither.
Spark the Pall Mall.
Break the whiskey seal.
The dogs howl your name
in a room gone still.
