Poetry

What I expected
Wasn’t what I got.

People walking out,
Rap. Conspiracy.
Murder, soda and tired.

A fat lesbian,
I sexy blonde, talking fluid.
A elderly man, describing his sex.
His wife a librarian,
Relations like a trap door,
Like shrapnel.

He painted himself in my mind,
Drinking wine, drawn to the spoken word.

I skyped Mitch, I was still tired.
Experiencing abdominal pains.
Tired.
I saw Emma, her poem was great.
I saw Hugo. He’s doing well.
Alex Lynch moved into their place.
Life. Continues

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