Cold Camden Town,
basement kitchen.
Breath freezing.
Steam rising,
from a coffee cup.
I climb the stairs
of my broken-down house.
Hair disheveled.
Face unshaven.
Legs stiff and unyielding.
The heater has taken
that chill from my room.
Plastic window covering,
crinkles.
Cars move outside.
I place a twelve inch
on the turntable.
Forget Me Nots,
by Patrice Rushen.
It’s for you.
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