run-run se fue pa’l norte

The Bard of Liminga

The old couch sits by the road
free in the cold northern rain
twice ruined – eviscerated by sunrot
and drowned under the surface
of the numbing leaden sky.

In her prime she was ugly
but gave me comfort on long nights 
when I dreamt of Violeta Parra
walking among the Araucana
lugging her tragic reel-to-reel

And singing for her far-fled flautist.
It’s past time for the axe.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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