Wednesday, 11 April 2018


The Brooch
We sat on the dirty stairs
holding hands and looking sad.
His name was Ralf
and tomorrow at
"la bonne heure"
he was
leaving Paris,
going home to Geneva.
He gave me a brooch made of metal,
two hands breaking a rifle in two.
I pinned it on my jacket,
the black leather one
that was stolen
some years
later.
I bought a new jacket,
also black leather,
also stolen
later.
I could have bought a new brooch,
identical to the one I had lost.
But I never did.
I couldn't replace the connection lost.
Lost
when I lost
the brooch.
The Ramingo's Porch, issue #2, bursting at the seams with poetry, stories, essays, and other literary constellations. Spring, love, revolution.
AMAZON.COM

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