A distant October

Her evening baritone

dressed in solemn winter wear

stolen from a Catholic funeral

She wears the colours

of Whisky at the bottom of

an alcoholic’s gut

the thick sludge of cirrhosis

of the liver and of the heart

So abysmal

in a room of brightest lights

burning through

unblinking corneas

her guiles are ashamed

they best remember

old men regrets from

family holidays

and they don’t trust

her to keep on

this anaemic song

that causes so much distress

in those moments

of pure empathy

where she walks

in wet clothes

through my apartment door

and that is how

the evening draws

to a close

at the end of a distant

October, down the river

that begins nowhere

and ends at my doorstep.

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