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Swamp City

by Nick Pipitone

She glowed in the sticky street,
cigarette hanging from ruby-red lips.
I wandered among musicians
and strippers in sparkled masks.

She asked for my hands:
I can’t recall what she said in her scarred voice,
but I remember the square’s smell,
like bargain-counter perfume,
and the warmth of her fingers.

I thought myself a troubadour -
sober and sad in shadow-dark streets.
But I was a schoolboy,
looking for glimmers of light in a dark room.

Copyright © 2019 by Nick Pipitone

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