May 2, 2017 by Ray Yanek
Maybe this is more of an image exercise than a poem, but what the hell? I’d figure I’d give it a shot. Let me know what you think…
At a weathered picnic table
We sit, rigid,
Sharp edges cutting valleys into forearms.
“No elbows on the table,” she says
While the tip of her shoe grinds
An expired cigarette into the soft, supple earth.