Tarsi
When he leaves here, he won't call.
If I leave here, I may fall.
Broken ankle, brittle bone,
wrap me up in plastered stone.
Life was tidy, now it's frayed;
not a friend of mine has stayed
past the summer till the fall.
When he leaves me, he won't call.
Broken ankle, little bones
silent movie telephones.
Valentino's only seen
on the television screen.
When he leaves, I'll be alone.
I wait by the telephone
in my room, this brittle home
wrapped in lathe and plastered stone.Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com
