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poetry, Uncategorized

A Kiss on the Temple

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The only temple

I ever knew was Shirley

Temple.  Mainly, the

drink.  Was the cherry

a kiss on the Temple?

A small red reward

for ordering pink

7-up at an age

where you could barely

climb onto bar stool?

The real Shirley

Temple was a curious

black and white

child born before Ritalin

and the straightening iron.

My grandpa

ordered my Shirleys,

sometimes with salted fries

at the Kosciusko Hall

where the East side

Polacks gathered

to watch Olympics

and talk of nothing

a 9 year old would remember.

Back then, life

was attractive and war

far enough to celebrate

with canned cherries,

stems long like future.

Original Poetry, Missy R. Rogers, 1.23.20

About missyrogers

Lifelong Michigander, early 40s, craft addict, chihuahua collector, coffee drinker, recovering human being, bipolar I, electronic music lover, bullshit caller, 5' tall, my blood is organic, and I refuse to be anything else. I will write until I die.


2 thoughts on “A Kiss on the Temple

  1. Love it, as usual.

    Posted by W.J. KING | January 26, 2020, 6:00 pm

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Queen of the bad haircuts with coffee for blood.

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