By Eric Alt
Her heels make a streak on the mopped dark floor. Sun-soaked hair and Bobby shades do not forgive. In her own world, she is unaware of neighboring gaze. Audible saturation, trance and voices swirl in the small clouds.
Wrinkled nose takes in the man-made scent. Lights blink at her presence, briefly leaving her in the dark. Counterfeit existence accommodates my mockery. A cleaned collared shirt should not be able to hide me. My veins grow and try to sit me down. I act as a journalist to my sinew architecture. Company subdues the monster, but there is no cure for the wild.
Grant Rodrigue