Sunday, November 15, 2009

613. SONYA

SONYA
When I had nothing to do
I had nothing to do. They
were yelling for a recount
in the local Ward election -
a few towns over some idiots
were still fighting the brand.
Milk was running over the
carapace like beer on a
college bar-top. It was
all enough to be disgusting.
Sonya (a friend from the nearby
hostel) was whistling a tune
through her Rubbermaid
gloves. I reached out my
hand to touch her hair.
She was not afraid,
just lost in some
other thought.
 

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