The Town Hall Bell |
| by David |
I can smell the melting cheese on my spaghetti,
from the last time we had dinner.
I recall the details of a picture in an antiques shop
that I probably could not even find now.
The waitress grinding the pepper,
The tight curves of her white breasts.
The sun on the paint on the window,
My sweating forehead over the candle in a wine bottle.
The putrid taste of cheap beer, just to make the meal dante.
Ice cream and chocolate, just to watch her eat it.
My money for a week spent in one day.
For my old love is gone now,
So far, far away.
No candle may flicker, no music may play,
Nor flow like a river, like dinner that day.
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