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.