Friday, July 31, 2015


The walnut table is
wobbly. My rib hurts
where I bumped into a chair.
The coffee is rich and luxurious.
Someone is pounding something
out on the street. The air
feels sweet and moist and laden
with particulate matter. Somewhere
a machine is humming. My bare feet
feel sticky on the wood floor.
A paper towel crumpled into
a ball opens back up slowly.


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