I sink into this leather foam, taking turns
to remember a child, handling stories, books to tell, to say slowly the contents of backs, arms, betraying love, lost but remembered as hugs and close tales are told. It's black or white or usually the opposite of what's going to be boldly taken over by cleaning or not, to trifle with the aging process, as more value incurs to debt, to process lives lived, silence told to others, listening intently. As we write, we listen to this chair, seated we know comfort, know dire necessities of baking ham, eggs, scrambled in silence as eggs process in sleep, the arms of making, writing these countless deposits of love. Seated there, we lounge, watching, hoping for endurance in accomplishing a task, a hoop, a goal to embrace young life, young, but constricted by the sublime, it trails, an eddy, an estate, sold with abandon. © 2015 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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December 2018
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