her copy of his book of poems
after
she sipped
too much wine
and spilled it on her dress.
she listened on
as trickles of red, like blood,
rolled down
her leg.
she loved
his words,
his rhyme or lack thereof,
the stories
that he told with each
clean sweep
of words.
how he
read each
beautiful line.
good luck he wrote
on the inside page,
best of luck with
your damp skirt,
and future
glasses of wine.
Philip Levine.
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