Past mid,
past night,
passed the front door,
and out of my life.

I’ve fallen from the tree,
not far from it.

A product of my environment,
a sinner.

She had me on the ground,
belly pressed against the winter wooden creaking floor,
with my arms at the side,
and her pistil to my face.

The rain passed.

My laundry hangs,
wet and heavy,
for all to see,
as they pass the yard.

"****'em."

The river dances in the rain,
veiled by white fog,
with ducks flocking
beneath the bushes.

A man stands nearby,
damning his life,
for the pavement serves
as a cemetery
for his wife's birthday cake.

What a bad day,
to be a beautiful sight.

It was hot, and I was starving.

The air was thick and dry, causing flies to drown as they land on your scorching skin. Drunk, I pray for water but I get Guadalupe. She hugs and kisses me stating that I will live forever because she was just blah blah blahing about me. The world quakes in my head until she blesses me with a sealed bottle of polish springs. I shower my tongue with it, wringing out the cuff of my shirt to get every drop. 

Now, famine was left to conquer.

"Come over. I live two flights up with a comfy bed just callin' for ya'."

I guess clam soup it is.

I look down at my plate, watching as melted whipped cream flows, ebbing on the lip of the dish. Orange zest peeks out from beneath golden debris. Although I do not see it, vanilla dances on the nose, twirling clementines below. 

It's more of a symphony than it is a meal. Defacing it with one scoop, a loop, and a swallow.

“This is the worst rendition of southern peach cobbler.”