...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Monday, February 1, 2010

S.P. Poem # 16: Rote

That’s all she wrote, my friend would say,

Every time another chapter ended in our

Adventures together. He’d preface it, usually,

With a little welp: Welp, he’d say, that’s all—

You get the idea. And then he’d exit the truck,

Disappear into the trees and underbrush,

And six days or six months later, drop me

A telegram. It usually came while I took tea

At an outdoor plaza of cobbled stones.

It was delivered by a kid on an Indian

Wearing a leather jacket and aviator glasses.

Steampunks. What is it with those guys?

Anyway, the message was always the same:

Pierre says it’s time. – Maximillian.

And then off I’d be to the rendezvous spot.

You asked for the story. That’s part one.

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