Somewhere Near Nashville

He’s lost the whiskey-weight,
ropey biceps coiled under denim.

She leans into him on a wooden bench,
looking out from under auburn bangs.

She is all bone and tendon
in her short macrame dress,

shadows between her knees and thighs
and along sharp shin-lines.

It’s all angles except for loops
formed by their left thumbs and fingers.

What is that one poster left
on the bare staple-stuck wall?

He has written all the break-
up songs. Time to move on.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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5 Responses to Somewhere Near Nashville

  1. In my twenties, I would go to local bars (Texas) and listen to the cryin’ in your beer songs, the my man done left me songs, and the cheatin’ songs. That’s where I learned to dance, too. A strange dichotomy – learning such a graceful, joyful art from such pain and waste. I love your poem – not many stir up this much memory for me. Toni

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