The anniversary of a dead ambition. The drops of blue paint on the floor, now smudged from someone’s foot, leads to nowhere.
The record player spits out my new thing, a car backs into a phone pole, an empty bottle rolls under the bed, murmuring marimba, she cries. We are a long way from Mozart.
The moon, what was left of night, fought its way through the cracks in the shade. The record still had three songs to its life-span.
The shadow of a cat on the polished wooden planks of the floor. I want to look, fleeting moments of poetry.
Poetry, mine. I actually am not that nice. Not for real, I feel like a phony, liar, hooves tangled in the jasmine below the bedroom window.
I am nice, but it is like an inconsequential doppelganger whom I have grown used to allowing to occasionally wander around.
She still sleeps and at least one of us does too.
I went down to the café. Standing outside, by my usual table was a cretinous little girl with a big belly, who stared at the newspaper kiosk without ever blinking.
Wayne H.W Wolfson