It's now the morning after.
I stagger about this apartment
Its vacant loneliness highlights
The tiny reminders of you.
Pabst empties half-crushed in the sink
Tipped shot glasses drool their last remains
Next to the JD bottle on the floor
While lacy panties lazily wave surrender
From their rotating ceiling fan aerie.
Then a blurred memory jumps into focus
Along with its many repeated reflections
Spurred by a tortilla package on the counter.
A product of perfect innocence,
And yet glaring the painful truth
With the simple declaration of "Burrito Size."
Fred Wilson
10/23/2012 04:59:09 am

"Burrito Size" is a very powerful concept. In the case of this poem, the author reflects on one hideous truth: he forgot to purchase the salsa. This clearly sent his little sweetie into an alcohol induced rage. Half-dressed, she stormed out of the house to find comfort in the kitchen of another more thoughtful man.

Memories like this are hard to express. I tip my hat to the author for sharing his pain with the world in such an eloquent way.


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