Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com


By: Kenneth White

My wife just sent me a text message from Venus.

Mar’s reception sucks.

The church steeple chimes old hymns through the thunderstorm. Sundays drip through clouds.

My quivering lips

reach across light years of pain

just to French kiss stars.

Somewhere there’s a mic

I caressed and kissed tonight,

echoing my name.

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