Friday, February 21, 2014


That plush anxiety is craving a source
of sweat buddies. By a source I mean a body.
That circular staircase is like gallows.
A slope to a landing where strollers are jammed
together, blocking the view of the dumpster.
Nothing in the mailboxes, ever. There's a flier
for take out. And a box from amazon.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

We're living the same terrifying life, only yours is cooler.

3:48 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

4:14 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Love this poem!

9:09 PM  
Blogger VicoLetter said...

Xo Vicoletter

5:04 PM  

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