To a Literary Friend -- Well, a Good Friend, Too
Constantine Contogenis

Your pages donít blister and flake from
the sides of your life. My ragged trompe líoeil
wallpaper presents a peeling, papered wall.
You write with what time you take --- a water-clock
of ink. I wait for this vacation, wake up before
my body is ready, decide and will
what my body will soon do itself, once it
can forget me. Iíd buy insurance from my brother-
in-law, if I could get away with whatís covered
--- after all, if it be not now . . .
Flying home to be at work, I canít read.
One row back, the sprinkler technicians
donít care who hears: the profitís in
replacing parts. Rent past due, sunburnt,
peeling, I pity myself my pride
come Monday morning to be writing
for hire and salary, to be earning myself
back, page by hour, to zero.

This Story by David Koehn
To a Literary Friend by Constantine Contogenis
Vernal Equinox by Mary Chatfield


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