CLIFF TOP CONVERSATION
by Curt Stubbs
It is an endless ridge that stretches
vainly past the horizon
in pursuit of the fleeing sun.
He is a square jawed, fair haired boy,
his mother’s dream of everything
any mother’s son should be.
I am cast in the image of
a shattered toy once capable of joy,
now suited best for the refuse pile.
We love in a way conceived
in night’s dark shadow, nurtured
by complete and total lack of light.
We sit atop the night sheltered ridge,
the hard cold stone beneath us
a metaphor for the heart that casts me out.
He says he wants a wife and children,
not to have to explain or justify
the love he has for me.
I throw a flower of the edge
and watch it drift to eart
a thing of beauty even in its dying.
3880 N. Park #A
Tucson, Arizona 68719
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