Mr. Watcher

dark pines

We’d sit, looking out,
As the slatted line of dark pines,
Long green shadows pitted in stars,
Lifted and swayed,

Like the evening waltz,
You used to do when a cocktail or two,
Had lit your flame,
And on I played,

Jennings and Jones,
A little Cash number for luck,
Moaning all the while,
About the coming fuck,

Lucky pines held that old owl,
His big, dark blot of nest still loomed,
Over our love, black against blue,
Quiet fright in the evening gloom,

He would scream loud and curdle,
Our hot blood as a low hoot rose,
And I always wondered in those frights,
If he foretold fruitless midnight throes.

About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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