Near Nashville

He’s lost the whiskey-weight,
ropy biceps coiled under denim.

She leans into him on a wooden bench,
looking out from under auburn bangs.

She is all bone and tendon
in her short macrame dress,

shadows between her knees and thighs
and along sharp shin-lines.

It’s all angles except for loops
formed by their left thumbs and fingers.

What is that one poster left
on the nearly bare staple-stuck wall?

He has written all the break-
up songs. Time to move on.

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