January 2004 / Volume Five / Issue One
Larry D. Griffin

Jane brings me a spigot
and says, Turn me on.
Through the kitchen window,
I study the burned-down
house next door and
wonder where the neighbors
went.  Jane spreads melted
butter on the black toast
she has made from the bread
she brought with her.
I pour more coffee and
offer her strawberry jam.
She accepts, but it makes
her lips sticky.  I get
stuck there with the last
cigarette I light and
the tale I tell of proper
ways to peel bananas.
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