The cause is empty but the pubs
are full. Its Tuesday.
Typical crooning of
barley agitates even sneakers abiding Italy. Anchorage is a rooting deep into cement.
We worry as far as our wardrobes, but only on occasion.
Don’t bother me
I hear hypocrisy
startling loud through the evening sounds of
rain bouncing between battling
umbrellas. Uncle under the bridge rehearses hard in hope of a troll costume, but till then
he’ll scare us through a glaring molestation. Remote controlled flames are
menacing.
Popular brick inlay of a chimney gone
the smoky interior is voluntary and kills.