2. Complicatedthe world is taking a gander at her
glorious salty streams,
and she has to admit
she likes the attention.
she's a dreamer and the day
her secret voice told her to jump
she did. and she flew,
just as that voice told her she could.
'the mind is complicated. it's a giant
screen of phantasmagoria covered in
blurry words. you live to make the text lucid.'
she says. but they don't ever listen.
she wishes for a piggy back ride from
her dead daddy and deceased grandpa;
a walk in the park with her past puppies;
a swim with her goldfish, alex and al.
she sleeps under three blankets,
above two, upon one sheet.
and she sleeps this way every night.
but her destiny is to sleep under four.
1. Introductionthey say this winter will be the coldest one in fifty years. i beleive them.
wind howls outside my window like a puppy practicing for later days. hush little baby don't say a word.. i snuggle under my duvet, whispering melodies to myself, encouraging sleep to take me. in two hours thirteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds my alarm will ring and i will have to abandon my bed, proceed to shower and dress, and leave for work at the book store down the way. i always have exciting mornings, if you're into public busses and creepy (rather sneaky looking, to be honest) old men asking you prices on sexual satire from nine to five.
i have to admit, i love the cash register. we've had a love-hate relationship for the past two years, but we still have love in there. the way it sounds when i hit the keypad, the numbers that appear on the onyx screen, the drawr that opens up just for me, the cash awaiting inside, the cash i slip inside, the closing of the drawr, and the way that it's chin
the skeleton keythey wore clear plastic rain jackets with hoods like the girls in elementary school, walking to their friend's house from their's, only two houses down.
the light skinned women is old. her face is wrinkled and smeared of age. under her plastic rain coat lays a dress that looks like a sheet from way-back-when. she wears old beaten tennis shoes with knee-high dinged socks, looking as though she walked through many puddles. her hair is white and grey, tied in a sloppy bun with peices of it spwaled over her forehead and laying over her ears. she holds an umbrella over them both, even though the sky is blue, not event the distance painted with the littlest streaks of darkness. but she holds it. steady, as if waiting for the pour to come down over them. like a pessimist waiting for bad news.
the darker skinned women had a body to make her seem young, but her face looked as if she was of age ; what having no roof can make a person look like is beyond any of us with decent walls. her raincoat