Emilie Friedman


It seems ridiculous
to have run into him
picking up dogshit
on a city street.
"her name is daisy"
he stuttered.
as if this half man
only a legend until now
a myth I’ve propagated alone
could limp towards me
growing grey
and have trouble saying
the name of a poodle

Good Old Days

Holding her,
stomach heaving.
we walked back to my apartment
where she whispered
“darling” in my ear
I should have dropped her right then.

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