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Lunch August 14, 2010

Posted by Bill Holm in Poems.
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I first thought egg salad
but it’s fried egg sandwich instead;
we made good ones together last week.
Olive oil.
You, a last leftover black bean burger
cooked up in your imagination,
devoured between stunned superlatives.
No canned beans.
Wine and spaghetti tonight.

Thunderstorms slant south.
Gray shades in layered swaths
pose no threat, no need to find cover;
spotter activation will not be necessary.
Still we share in torpid heat easing,
finally roused and urged to lumber on.