blood stained and cold, your hand was laid out grasping at imaginary roses.
the room was wet, and there was chilly air, and the footprints were plain as day.
tv blared in the other room, a man talking over a studio audience.
it was a very ordinary day
,
clouds and a shrubs in the back, with a barking dog and chimney smoke, and a laughing neighbor and a kid with a backpack. A red car a white door, and muddy sneakers. too ordinary for something like this. Why is it always so ordinary. why is it like a dream