Eight always beats two.
Regardless of my winning,
"Want to go fishing?"
I approach the house
to find my bagpipe teacher
playing Mohicans.
The driver is cruel.
I pursue the speeding bus,
but to no avail.
I see the old man
absorbing the warm sunshine
with his cockatoo.
The phone brings the past,
something I don't like to dwell
on for very long.
I do catch a bus,
but nervousness pulls the cord.
I am eight blocks short.
Creeping through the dirt,
I do not look beautiful.
He seems to notice.
Four, three, two, one, zero!
The Commando is watching.
I am slow tonight.
Battered legs are cool.
Scratched arms show your devotion.
Bloodsack conqueror.
I am too tired
to rue the loss of what I've
ever really owned.
Fridays are the best.
They resonate with choices.
Good ones come often.
rating: 5
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