Dusk at El Dorado
Together on
A blue couch,
frayed pillows
shoving us off its edge.
This apartment is
old.
Fitzgerald, Capote, Vonnegut,
dead
men leaning
against each other on
a rickety shelf among
classics.
You mention
the lounge
in front of
us.
A lush, emerald sitting beast
where Jack painted Rose.
I chuckle at the thought
of us doing the
same.
But there is little light
in this rabbit hole.
And you must go
before four-eyed,
six-fingered,
eight-tongued,
ten-faced,
monsters
crawl out of the angel city
to ravage and devour
the flesh from our
bones.
You pick me up
twirl me
like a father saying
goodbye
to his little girl.
I wave,
turn away,
look back,
all I see
sitting now
your
ghost.
-Rachel Doda
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