Graphite (Wichita)
Cop cars
ajar stand
perplexed
with our mid
day coffee cups
soggy from
our gloved
fingers in
the sun-shriveled
snownovembers
of yore.

The dog whines
leashed at
the side of
the train depot
where we kissed
once before
Wichita

once with
graphite between
our teeth, tongues
wet with sonnets
that read like
saliva spit into
the face of the
world.

The train gallops
along; poets
destroy poems
with the rhythm of
a cheap song.