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Blake Lynch

A Dream in Which I Share a Danish with Walter Grimley

We lived at the end of a Paris cul-de-sac
and Walter took his with a swirl of cheese.
The way she left him, he said, with half
a pack of Winston’s was colder than
a Minneapolis night. And on the street,
someone strangled Piaf with nylon strings.

Walter talked of a portrait he’d seen
on the back of a soldier’s matchbook.
A sweetheart who danced the Charleston
in just a beret. Who met a painter
tending bar in Morocco. He never found
how to sketch the shadows of her gin and tonics
or the color of her black market shoes.
He focused on her boobs, instead.

So we waited for Jeopardy each night
as he talked of you, a torpedo crashed
into our submarine. The steel held tight
as we wore grooves in the corner chairs.
We had nothing left but Lake Harriet,
Two dolphins tangled in plastic rings,
The snow fell as our backs gave out
and the gas lights turned on across the harbor.

     
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