Poems by Dean Faulwell, occasional ruminations about poetry. Whatever else happens in.
Contact: bigdean321@yahoo.com
Thursday, September 1, 2011
THE GOOD OLD DAYS
There was too much
available parking in
the good old days.
Death was in
its heyday. Bits
of muffled diction
seemed all but
silent in the face
of opposition.
Gold's value was
glued to chaos for
no discernible reason.
No one was surprised
when the sky declined comment.
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