Jane LeCroy


I carry a little death with me
on my back, in my bag:
cigarettes, my poems,
my attempts at  impossible hopes,
a lighter, illegal herb in a one-hitter,
dirty secret photos, poems by others,
folded love letters soaked by rain.
What is man but his problems?
A lifetime line of mistakes
knots on a rope a finite length
we end at a loose end, forever
undone but finished
we're left hanging by our dreams.
We never get enough of that sexy lover
or the bad-ass bass-line or the laughter
from that baby girl in the surf the first time.
If only the sweet sound could sing forever  
and I could keep the whiskey high,
the buzz on my lips from the kisses I need
as a mother, a wife, a lover, a human hungry
for things to stay the same- when everything's good
but we’re brought down again and again
we continue our relationship
with gravity until the grave,
we're saved when we think we're saved.




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