in this life. I must put back more life in my years. Living in strife. My rage is sheer as my silk
stockings. Shuffling through the day like an actor in a play. The only thing dropping by are the pigeons firing
bombs. Banging my head like a tom-tom, waiting for something to hatch. But the only thing I catch is a cold. I roll through
this afternoon as a ball of green and blue yarn the cat's unraveled. A tangled string that hasn't traveled past her backyard. A joker in a deck of cards.