Monday, July 6, 2009

Pulp Poem of the Week

It was an ancient house,
built in the late nineties
and constantly repaired
and restored since then.
There was nothing
but the look of money
wastefully squandered here--
a smell of money
even in the flower beds
where roses smelled like
sweaty fifty-cent pieces
instead of roses, and
the jasmine had the scent of
a disinfectant used in banks.

Harry Whittington
Hell Can Wait

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