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Hot August Morning

by Rita Webb

Hot August morning, funeral procession
Banshee oak trees wailing, crying for his soul
Short life of hunger, bad choices, sorrow
Skateboard in an earthquake, flying out of control

Now all that's left, a broken T-bird bottle
Emerald shards a-glinting in the noonday sun
Amethystic liquid, playing games with language --
Saturn, sauterne, cistern -- broke and on the run

Public indifference. Madness unrelenting
While I remember singing -- Dixie all alone.
No one would listen, none would stop to help us
Forsaken on the sidewalk, he died there on the stone

Parade of black-clad groupies follows to the graveyard
Sacrificial virgins, now long past their prime
Not sure where they're going, know they can't go back there
Dancing in step to a different time

No more white powder, no more freebasing
It's okay to like him now; he's good and clean and dead
Soul stripped bare and hungry, nothing new for asking
All streets must end where the river runs red

This work © 2005, by Rita Webb. All rights reserved.
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