Green Mountain Coffee

the café nearly empty—

scent of burnt brew

 

wafting through

our shared morning.

 

and you turned me on,

talking of Verlaine’s

 

passion for Rimbaud,

stirring your drink.

 

“with a bullet,” you said,

“he made it apparent.”

 

we walked to the library,

but no French poetry.

 

sitting and quietly

staring into nearly

 

empty corners,

an idea struck,

 

became a rat

chewing at my throat.

 

a bullet I held back,

so as not to be obvious.

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