Karen R. Porter





Where are those nights

when we picked our teeth with stars,

when New York clinked like champagne glasses

and San Francisco held epiphanies in flesh?

Iíve had to catalogue my days in even numbers

for strangers who never seemed to notice

the sum always came out odd.

And I glued defensive postures

to hold my shoulders up.

The promises we made ourselves

turned sour or fell from grace or were

just too damned hard.  Sometimes simply walking

took all the energy I had.  You can

weigh the money and production,

put the babies on the scales, but the scars

are the only magic left in town.

Copyright © 2003 Karen R. Porter.  All Rights Reserved.

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