fourty five45.your grandmothers wedding ring rests rusted on a white tiled sink, golden drips from faucets never fixed it spreads green copper stains ruthlessly in the soap dish and fills the bathroom (really that whole dark little hall and out the window and into the ivy) with the smells of a merry-go-round game on a fairground half a century ago. the angel cake clouds that were once, like michaelangelo, painted on the ceiling have been darkened by waterstains and mold. they now look like an impartial texas storm, moody, grey, dark, and like their masters cloudy grey eyes (no longer seeing much of anything) the beauty has actually grown with old age.after she died they sold and demolished that bathroom (and the little hall, and they pulled up the ivy- its invasive, and had grown through a crack in the windowglass). Im not sure if anyone thought to take the ring. you and I, we were not allowed to breathe that fairground air full of mold and dust and sunlight and laughs o
fourty two42.coffeeshop goddess of stone cold quiet, vacuum eyes. run me your ribcage and overdrawn credit card, youre a saint sans regret, last cigarette gone out between strained lips, stained glass tattooed hands touch in grateful prayer, a solemn air settles as fingers meddle in bright dyed yarn- Jacobs ladder, cats cradle- slide a note across the table, which you disregard, holy. cigarette relit and messy hair unfixed gospel music from the car at the stop and we laugh, hassled by cops for no reason at all and move along, move along, twelve o clock and all is well, circumvent your personal hell because we have hell to pay for our greatness.