from bed, sore back

the restaurant didn’t make sense to her. crafting your own meal, waking to the counter, paying, walking herself out? 

she could have stayed home

yet moving among people with window shade eyes a compromise of time and rhythm and rhyme it’s then when the mystery unraveled itself a half full mustard on the top pantry shelf seeds to sew when she has the time it’s never not now that she’ll finally unwind without a glimpse at the bottom of the bottle that kept her in line and gave rise to a guy and eyes so sunken

they saw 

packing alone to head to the next stop where the bags will drop, synapses pop a single dragon wrestling to the top it’s coiled body shivering trying to shake the threat of desire. cold shower saturdays don’t stand a chance, keep feeding the dance with your pleading glance. faces never seen, elderly to teen, every human will let you use them in-between. then your back in line, mustard on rye, alone in the park. 

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