Siren wails weave their way through town.
The cringe of anticipation as they approach.
Someone's having a much worse day than me.
Hoot-hoot of the train behind the ladies sharing their struggles and victories at the metal table next to me. With aviators and precise pedicures. One looks like Owen Wilson.
Clanks of mugs on saucers from the collared shirt man chatting with the bearded one with a rainbowed sleeve.
Will there be tattoos in heaven?
Engines noises behind me sliding by and orchestrated intervals.
 |
| this ivy is confused. i blame the drought. |
It's been a few days since I started with Your will be done in my head.
Blech. What a terrible waste.
Redeemer of souls.
And Redeemer of time.
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