Sunday, 30 October 2011

Against The First Chill

The photos are arranged on the bed as if it were an album. One shot shows children wearing bright, warm clothing against the first chill. I remove the scarf lagging my throat. Bits of leaves powder to the floor.

A white boat floats down a green river.
The stereo’s cranked up and the biker
in the bar has but one intention:
to get and stayed hammered.

Each day, the menu’s always the same –
chicken, rice and beans.

I hear a voice say my name. It takes me a minute to place her. The last time I’d seen her she’d had black hair and a face as pale and sleek as a vampire. Now, she’s gone to seed, wrinkled like a windfall shut in a newspaper-lined drawer.

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