Single Mothers

Between her thumb and forefinger she holds the butt end of a bent, smoldering joint and inhales as the rain beats fat heavy cold drops down upon her and the toddler in her stroller blissfully unaware of strange smells, rain spells and where in space, time and geography she sits strapped to plastic wheels as …

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Sad Song At the Bar

She sits alone at the bar and thinks how she’s an archetype lyrical subject for phony romantics, men mostly, with scruff faces and long oily hair constantly tucked behind flaky ears and beneath hundred dollar camel hair hats that every hopeful idiot wears and strums an old Washburn in his room at midnight while the …

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