Stale kale

The sugar cone was soft, chewy. 

The wind was warm and stung of ammonia from the factory farm now south of the railroad tracks. 

The June bugs hiss like the creaking screen door, begging for a better life in oil. 

The sores heal slow in the summer heat. 

Waves of energy lines cloud the eye as I let sweat creep to the end of my nose, resting on the satisfaction of potential for longer than I thought possible. 

With its splash crash I honor it for a moment, then stand out of the rocking chair. There’s a snake under the porch, but I won’t let it know I know it’s there yet. 

I didn’t need the cone. 

I’m going to walk upstairs and draw a bath like Marjorie used to. With a hint of lavender. 

She wanted me eating right, the curly girly. The kids miss her more but for other reasons. 

I can’t see more than flashes of flesh and the salt on her lips. I am so numb. I’ve grown cold. 

I don’t want to remember the energy of youth. I want to walk stair steps into the grave. For now, I’ll walk to bed and pretend to die. I can hear the crickets now. I bury my face in cotton sheets. The shadow of night grows. 

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