Maryrose Smyth

The Juice Bar

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Salad Days

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Poof, and it’s all gone,

falling,

breaded,

in an egg mixture with seasonings

— lips thrown onto brown paper,

hot beast smiles we grab and eat,

exoskeletons detached from their flesh bellies,

moon shadows and French kissed souls snapped from their God given rights,

All the world loves a parade, a good meal, found money,

Oh, but to behold that face!

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It was September and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

A time before things changed forever and life asserted it’s irrevocables,

became opposite day everyday.

How I hate that Pat told us the future that day, said he planned to die early and leave a pretty corpse.

How I hate that we just sat on the deck of our uncle’s boat nodding,

laughing,

drinking,

sunning ourselves between mile markers,

spent time talking about bee shadows messing up our tans,

liar, liar, pants on…

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