Her Morning Glory

It is when Black Skies fade to violet I see her hunched over her wooden table, smoke slivers through her fingers as she fondles the kitchen light that spotlights and Illuminates her newest piece.

Lips like Warhol sewn with rusted safety pins she stole from my jacket.

And in the mornings when I hear our coffee maker on its last leg, brewing your morning fix I creep past and look over your shoulder while Iggy Pop sings in your ear

Marilyn dances on pinstripes

and I wonder if this will be the one that grants us the privilege to sleep in till noon, swim naked in our pool

and nobody sees me walking in the rain, to wait for a bus that is already gone.

 

Poem by Jon Vreeland and Art by Alycia Vreeland

 

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