• Tom

The Wrong Crutch

To eat the grand,


Waste retirements on the

Dreams, the corners of sand

You used to hold in contempt.

When you meet

- an umber forecast -

The perfect stranger.

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Bus terminal. Greying hair as thick as straw, You shave in the sink Before you fall black and down On the cold-smeared-shit tiling of the Greyhound bathroom. There is no life before Fent, she said. He