Circle Of Gold

Poem By Joe Howell

wayward words spilling from heated lips
'you did's' floating in and out
'but if', pushing in every now and then
why not just pack up and leave

after the papers, what comes now?
where to start from zero, at forty
is there a supermarket of flesh
where one can pick, the best, throw the spoils to the wind?

the thing that stays with me is the
ring on the left hand
now it's just an empty circle of gold

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