Saturdays at the Club

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The night you sat next to me
smelling of roses and old vinegar,
tapping the ashes off your
very long
cigarette
like it had done something to make you angry,
I was thinking about leaving you for good,

and running off to Brazil
where I know no one
and can’t speak the language,
where the skies burst with rain
and the earth smells like lavender.

But you said, “Let’s dance!”
with such spontaneous
delight
that I forgot to leave you,
forgot all about South America
until just now
when you lit that damn cigarette.

Originally published in Matter Journal, Volume 10: Village
2007
http://www.wolverinefarm.org/publications/matter-journal/

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