"thermos" poems
“If you could be anywhere in the world
At this exact moment,
Where would you choose to be?”
I choose the easternmost point
Of Acadia Maine at sunrise.
Cold, salty ocean spray in my face,
Warm thermos of cocoa in my hands
And the promise of a new day
Being made right before my very eyes.
What could be more reassuring?
What could be more solidifying?
To know that no matter
What happened in the days or weeks
Or months or years or decades
Before,
Today, right now, at this exact moment,
It is all behind you,
It is all in your past.
And that sunrise you’re watching
Over cresting crashing white topped waves
In the cool breeze of morning
With the scent of dirt and earth and trees
Carried on the wind that also brings
The call of the morning dove and thrush
And Phoebe-bird,
Is the promise you’ve been waiting for.
The promise that you’re gonna be okay
Because today, today is a new day.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
You know how the Lorax spoke for the trees? I feel the need to speak for my four-year-old niece. Not because she can't speak -- she can and rarely stops once she starts -- but because there are certain concepts time has yet to grant her. So until time does, I got you covered, Lucy.
Mommy,
you call it the "poetry" of a child's sleep,
ohh 'n ahh, she's so, so sweet,
I call it child's "pose." Not the yoga neither.
I'm posing and rolling and cooing
biding time until you're tripping on the
Ambien retreating to a dream.
You're only reprieve.
'Cause when your *** is asleep,
I be mixing up the Play-doh,
red and yellow, black and white,
'till it's 50 shades of brown, alright?
Dirt pies from the backyard,
put 'em by the brownies
in the morning world-weary in your pajamys
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Over my shoulder, drinking from a thermos --
stumble in your step mean you gettin' nervous--
hand me piece of paper and two crayons
macaroni orange and swamp water liaisons
these coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
These coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
"Color outside the lines, eh Lucy?
don't play by the rules," my Mommy say,
but I been around long enough to know dat
'dese rules pay. Outside the lines? Is just uh sloppy.
Been outside the club in front of the line
with my fellow shawties.
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Chicken and fries three meals-a-day.
Chocolate milk three meals-a-day.
Tricycle boys three wheels away.
Hands on your hips can't make me stay.
Lego blocks lodged in your skull.
I've hid the Advil. The Dayquil. Drank the Nyquil though.
Alright, alright, time to get confessional.
All my ***** accidents are intentional.
I melt my own Barbies to feel alive.
Snort glue sticks just to get hella high.
Mommy, you've got a messy ketchup face.
Mommy, you've got spiders in your hair.
Mommy, you've got ****** on your pants.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Bi-otch.
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Soft Rock Music
Old and New
No social media
Fan or Air conditioning on
Cold drinks standng by in great Thermos
Phones silenced
Hugs that go into the night
Amazing and loving moments
Easy and gentle
Jun 15, 2025
Jun 15, 2025 at 4:08 PM UTC
The bright sun’s rays
Are dappled as they strike
The manicured greensward.
He, tall, lithe, teeth all aglow
In cream slacks and pastel blouson,
She, fair and fairylike in acres of shimmering gauze,
Alight from the auto
At the site of their ‘manger al fresco’
Let us call them Justin and Jocelyn.
The basket is heavy
No matter.
He lifts it clear to carry
She gasps, he grins.
In minutes the scene is set
The rug, the plates, the glasses
The pate, the cold chicken,
The fruit….the wine.
He deflowers a bottle of Moselle,
Wishing it were her.
Guessing as much she blushes.
Ants retreat to nests
Wasps attack alternate targets
Flies zoom elsewhere to feed.
And all the while the sun
The golden sun continues to dapple.
The rain is not quite horizontal
As Joe and Judy
Run from the bus stop
To the stony beach.
Not quite horizontal
But driven off the sea it tastes salty.
He, ordinary, average, in a dampening grey mackintosh.
She, hair bleached in a sister’s frock and jacket
Holding hands,
And hold each a sandwich
Cellophane wrapped.
Squatting against the seawall
They eat.
Wet eyes flash bright signals.
Joe has a small thermos
Its vegetable soup,
And somehow a hardboiled egg appears,
To share.
The rain continues its attack.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
Grime-caked fingers digging into
An infant’s innocent eye sockets
The chubby little **** shouldn’t be wearing that locket
No tears run their course down its soft, pink epidermis
But one could bottle up
The slightly thinning blood
Into a small
Thermos
I told that **** to get an abortion
My ******* ***** deserves better than her
I can’t stand the scent of baby lotion
I’ll go fishing with its flesh as lure
‘Cause I’m pro-choice
Yeah, I’m pro-choice
‘Cause I’m pro-choice
Yeah, I’m pro-choice
The wailing, ****** howl dies down
When the child’s trachea is crushed
By some hand-me-down, rusted hammer
That turns its body to mush
One could still see the baby’s frozen face
Open-mouthed and purple-blue
Spinning around the unwashed blender
With the previous night’s food
I told you to get a simple abortion
My ******* ***** deserves better than you
You better coat your putrid *** in baby lotion
And have some mouthwash ready, too
‘Cause I’m pro-choice
Yeah, I’m pro-choice
‘Cause I’m pro-choice
Yeah, I’m pro-choice
Mar 12, 2010
Mar 12, 2010 at 8:48 PM UTC
Four days left 'till Christmas
I'm trying to get home to you
I'm in Nevada in the mountains
With the sky an eerie blue
I'm driving past my limit
Awake on pills and joe
Trying to get back cross the country
Trying to beat the coming snow
Snowflakes burst like little bombs
On my windscreen in the night
I can't see where I'm going
My blades are frozen tight
I'm driving to the image
That is fading out of sight
I'm gonna get back home for Christmas
I'm gonna help make Christmas right
Three days now till Christmas
In the Dakotas, stuck in snow
My windows frozen open
And you should hear the winter blow
I'm not stopping 'till I get there
Although you seem so far away
I'm gonna be back home for Christmas
I'll be with you on Christmas Day
Snowflakes burst like little bombs
On my windscreen in the night
I can't see where I'm going
My blades are frozen tight
I'm driving to the image
That is fading out of sight
I'm gonna get back home for Christmas
I'm gonna help make Christmas right
Two days now till Christmas
In Minnesota, freezing cold
I've drunk five thermos' full of coffee
I've put my bladder right on hold
I'm blazing through the streamers
Right through the drifts, some ten feet high
I'm driving back to you for Christmas
I'll be back home, unless I die
Snowflakes burst like little bombs
On my windscreen in the night
I can't see where I'm going
My blades are frozen tight
I'm driving to the image
That is fading out of sight
I'm gonna get back home for Christmas
I'm gonna help make Christmas right
One more day till Christmas
I've crossed the line into our state
I'll make it home to you by morning
So, Christmas breakfast...it's a date
I've driven across the country
To get back home, where I should be
I'll be there when you both wake up
Waiting by the Christmas tree
Snowflakes burst like little bombs
On my windscreen in the night
I can't see where I'm going
My blades are frozen tight
I'm driving to the image
That is fading out of sight
I'm gonna get back home for Christmas
I'm gonna help make Christmas right
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
When the first sweet scent of summertime,
sifted through the sea-salt scented air,
so many things and everything
were bright, light and happy-go-fair,
the Summer Life with you was finally here.
As soon as our bare feet hit the wood bridge,
running from the road up over the dunes,
great grey seagulls squawked, dove and swoon,
we held hands together, one and one
made two,
dash-dancing across the shiny sand with you,
dressed and undressed in our Summer Life moods.
Colours like pinwheels spun like yarn,
flashed and clashed bright orange to blue,
you danced and giggled like a loon,
pulled me up and so close, so close
to you,
that I had to dance, I had to dance like a loon,
I just had to laugh and dance and laugh along with you.
How we played, we frolicked beneath the beachy sun,
belly-surfed upon the waves just for funny fun,
flicked flecks of sand from our sticky picnic lunch,
shared swigs from a big blue thermos jug
of fruity-fruit yummy punch,
sharing and caring beneath the Summer Life's sun.
By evening-tide the air grew cool,
you called me 'lover,' I called you 'fool'
-with a big ol' blanket draped over our shoulders,
we kissed and cuddled, growing much bolder,
falling flat back
upon the mighty mattress of sand,
feeling the mists of the waves licking our hands,
as the Man-In-The-Moon arose and shone,
to dance and laugh with us on the Summer Life's throne.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 1:46 AM UTC
~
*"Satellite, oh, satellite
who sits upon our skies
how deep do you see
when you spy into our lives?"
This is for when
coyote called
into the ether
connecting heaven to earth
For when
glasnost sang
and velvet revolution
twinkled in the humming air
This is for when
the quiet hedges
of lilies and remains
came out of darkness
For when
the misty curtain man
shopping for codes and antiquities
poisoned the salt shakers
This is for when
a spy in an alcove
twisting the thermos tops
to his dark-eyed sister
shelled the transmitters
of Radio Free Europe
For when
his wife refused
This is for when
working in the glass structure
of a Cold War
made spider and I
a measured room
an arc of doves
For when
the last step from the surface
was the end of a thin cord*
~
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 5:59 PM UTC
WIMBLEDON COMMON
Wimbledon common
Was always the place to go,
Catching the train from Streatham
The family all aglow,
Sandwiches in a paper bag
Thermos in a sack,
Plastic sandels and tennis racket
Not forgetting the cricket bat.
Everyone was skippy
The sun high in the sky,
Dad had his umbrella
But the rain was shy,
Jumping from the platform
Down a row of steps,
Brother took a tumble
And that was that.
Plasters in a pocket
All was mended soon,
Finally recovered
Felt over the moon,
Reached the grassy stretches
Whoops mind the dogs,
Come away from the lovers
They're out for a jog.
Find a shiny tree trunk
Horizontal on the ground,
Four happy people
Tuck in to raspberry jam,
Now for the thermos
Plastic cups ahead,
Here come the wasps
To eat our jam and bread.
Later penguin biscuits
And a trip behind the bin,
Dad puts out the wickets
Let's see who wins,
After a quiet session
Brother looses his cool,
Slings the bat skyward
You should see it go,
Mother looked upwards
Covering her head,
Just managed to miss it
Landing on the hedge.
I went off walking
To gather pretty flowers,
Dad hid under the paper
We had a quiet hour,
Clouds gathering slowly
The sun going down,
What a lovely day in the country
We're now homeward bound.
In memory and gratitude to my lovely mum and dad
Grace and Eric Ayton- Robinson who always did their best.
Love Mary **
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Often we approached the bay over high ground
Taking the track from Totland between the heather
Where the small blue butterflies dusted the grass
With a fluttering sparkle and the gorse spoke yellow.
The climb to the top was arduous with many stops
Sitting on prickles, the scent of sheep buzzing
Around our ears and nostrils and filling sandels.
A rest refreshed with that thermos coffee hot on lips.
Then in an instant we came out of shadow to meet
The white glare off the sea and a downward decent
Across grassland filled with thistles
To drop
Through style and gate and down onto the road.
Love Mary
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
Hungry, no breakfast again
Nosed pressed up to the screen door of the cafeteria
While the other children play
I watch and sniff the air while they eat
Wishing I had those soft, delicious rolls
That cold milk
I had bologna on white bread
And green Kool-Aid in a thermos
Always warm and unappealing by lunch time
Same thing every day
Once Kathy gave me a roll
And it made my day
Sep 18, 2009
Sep 18, 2009 at 6:27 AM UTC
What is my Purpose?
On this earth's surface.
Do I have an ultimate service,
within these verses?
What is my purpose,
In today's circus.
Is it to buy all that I can purchase?
Or be out on the street shirtless.
What is my purpose,
Among the Earth's worthless,
Is it to grow up scared and nervous?
Or walk around nerveless.
What is my purpose,
In this earth's furnace,
Is it to be full of pureness
and warm those around me like a thermos?
To the above questions,
I am wordless.
To the above questions,
I am verbless.
To the above questions,
I am termless.
So i guess my purpose,
Is full of obscureness.
And in this search for sureness,
I strive on with sterness,
Ignoring the churchless,
In doing my best to furbish
My best definition
Of Purpose.
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 9:21 AM UTC
~
*lost library books
and broken lunchbox thermos,
her childhood under a forgotten
leaf on a pond.
she's attracted to the sound
of the breeze through her hair,
inner-city birds recommending
she listen with her head underwater,
to experience it as a fish might.
this is inescapable.
blood roses in the snow,
her unemployed martyred
fingers in the factory.
the manufactured years go by
at a price too great to recover from.
for every flash of beauty,
there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence.
this is inescapable.
her sleep-flower recital
in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital,
some kind of faraway pink funeral for
dead trees and traffic lights.
treasure impaired clouds capture
an isolated moment in time.
perhaps several moments.
perhaps several parts of the same moment.
this is inescapable.*
~
Apr 30, 2023
Apr 30, 2023 at 1:29 AM UTC
i am sick
with what feels like a bad cold
mixed with a horrible flu
yet you still have no fear
in placing your lips against my cheek.
you bring me warm soup.
you laugh into my thermos
and you hold my hand
because nothing else matters.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 10:40 PM UTC
Accidentally locked out
Of my cavern,
With cold for company.
Cold, and thoughts
Uncold:
Kept hot in the thermos in my chest,
Kept sweet:
Borrowed juice of a ripe fruit -
A peach, do let's say a peach -
Uncold company,
And in loneliness
A warmth...
A neatlyfolded
Origami Man is going 'round
Cleverbuzzing and kindsmiling
At little sillyshining things
That sometimes climb Him,
With My name folded up inside
And warm in the thermos
In His paper chest -
The stem of a mouse wineglass
Is not so delicate
Nor is He any less
Solid than the granite
'Pon which I'm resting -
That something fragile should be
So arresting...
The thought pins me warmly
In place,
So what of a wait?
Inside or out, hot or cold,
Somehow somewhere He is
Impossibly folded up
Around Me.
I can wait.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
I feel the call from the oceans,
the voices whisper from its breeze.
Snow and satire can't label the mindfulness of
memories slowly coming back to me.
My mountains have missed you so much,
my legs miss the warmth of your thermos,
I miss your gentleness and subtlety.
Priority one. If you don't think you will make it by Tuesday,
I'll travel back in time before we were forty degrees,
you can read the seraphs on my signature
if I can lay in your sheets for a week.
Chrysanthemums all over the hallways, Irises in azurean hues.
The charter won't take us all the way to the break wall,
I'm at the airport trying to reach you by phone.
I'd take the flavor of your spirit,
over the sweet coolness of truth,
Slide my fingers into the holes in the jeans you always wear for me when I come home.
The only thing I write off are pages,
Tables marked with the ends of so many words.
Who are you to know what you can do without
The more I've learned, I realize I'm happier with the less I know.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
you rise before the morning does, watch the black
sky go gray through the shower curtain
lacy shadows cast on summer-night skin
not ready to awaken, blue eyes half-mast to
squint away the fluorescent intrusion as your
mother butters toast for you that you leave behind,
your stomach sleeping too.
yawning, you thank god that the possums are
exercising better judgment as you hold
the wheel at eight and four, shake your knees
at every stoplight, sing billy joel top-volume
to stay alert while the clouds go pink and gold.
you join the real-world almost right away,
asleep before you hit the tracks at westport
tickets tickets tickets grabs your ear, but only just.
your coffee cools in its thermos, forgotten in the
new haven line haze, your nerves all perked up
fighting with the fog between your ears. your nerves
all perked up. your nerves all perked up. you try to
kick the fog to no avail. you all but sleepwalk
down the platform, you barely watch the gap.
hey, wouldn’t it be crazy if he came your dream-voice
whispers to your conscious yes it would be crazy your
conscious chuckles at the thought.
you trip on the overweight businessman’s pennyloafer
and you think how much you need to *** and you toss
your cold bagel in the all aboard trash can and you
think about how crazy you would be to hope to see him
and you hope your backpack isn’t slowing traffic too
much and your nerves all perked up your nerves all
perked up and you shake away the fog one last time and
you get to the end of the long hot platform and you—
hey wouldn’t it be crazy if but yes he’s
there and yes you
don’t know
what to
say but
yes your
eyes wide yes
mouth open
yes you don’t
know what
to say but
*hi,
I love you,
yes*
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
When I was cleaning the toilet
I killed my angel
because I brushed her off my sleeve.
to be fair, the devil suffered a fall
as well, but he only dropped a few feet.
The porcelain surface gleamed
in the light cast by the single bulb
flickering valiantly to stay alight
like the little engine who could.
The bathroom was my place of refuge,
it seemed like the only place I received
some privacy whenever my parents were home.
I reverently removed my Superman wrist watch
and placed it on the sink alongside my vintage
Spiderman lunchbox complete with a thermos
and collapsible spoon.
Inside the thermos I had hidden a pack of razors
I swiped from Jim’s Hardware store; he was nearly
blind, but liked me because I always cleaned his yard.
I set the razors on the edge of the bathtub for a moment
and only looked at them.
When someone knocked on the door
I refused to answer.
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
Country nighttime turned off the world
Absolute window blacking
Any other life void-invisible
Universe shrunk snack-size
Existence is only this cab,
these tiny lights,
this fuzzing radio
One direction
Only ahead
Only these tracks
A change in rhythm signals new territory
Lower infrastructure spend
Budget acknowledged by
transitioning drum track
More toms
Double kick
More bass, but
no less hypnotising, no less soporific, no less slowing, no less…
Snap.
Driver vigilance alarm earns its keep
Pierced by safety sound needles
Bleary eyes split open
Only closed for seconds
Enough to dry 3am eyelash glue
Intermittent, intensifying battle
Open versus closed
Here versus where
Wake versus yawning, rocking, mesmerising, irresistible…
Snap.
Assistance required
Scan for options
Snoozing thermos drools its last drips onto the floor mat
Moment of silence for coffee, our absent friend
What else?
Lunch box offers carrot sticks
Sharp, crisp, smug
No help. What else? Cake.
A silent bargain
– okay calories, we’ve had our differences, but we need to pull together
Health is tomorrow, safety is now
Sleepiness shrinks and stretches place and time
There is only here
Only now
Battle and bargains
Winning and losing
Until the sun comes up
Oct 24, 2024
Oct 24, 2024 at 10:53 PM UTC
The first few sips were the hardest.
Between the taste and the guilt,
I cringed, running away from
my problems the only way I knew how.
It took a few more to overcome
the burning, expired cough syrup taste
of the stolen alcohol from the thermos
hidden in a ****** box.
I felt my innocence tremble when
I called you down.
When my heart raced,
I had forgotten about it.
When you kissed me
in my brother's room
(my first, just another for you)
my innocence broke.
It was almost out of view,
a tiny dot along the horizon line,
the moment your hand ran down
my side and I shivered.
One last glance in the rear view mirror,
and it had vanished,
as you rolled on top of me,
lying skin to skin.
But the insant I grasped reality,
understanding what was about
to happen, in my big brother's bed,
my innocence won, saving me
from endless regret and rumors in the halls.
The innocence that I had never
before cared about,
the innocence I was trying to rid
myself of, won as it
put my hand on your chest, breathed your name,
and asked you stop.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 8:14 AM UTC
Put your ear to the concrete, now.
It has the same rhythm as watercolor,
our souls have the same consistency as dirt.
La la la. Everything is plowed in the ground eventually –
every ticktock shows Atlantis a friend.
This balcony smells like violins, like a comet, like waifs
& has the sound of crowded prose.
A man will spit, spit, spit on you:
a girl will crawl from a bottle of effervescence –
both carry their flask
one is so red, do worry about communism.
We will all have our canteen
microwave like a thermos & aerate into
our crowded spit bubble, big finale la la la.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
The children would be packed and ready days in advance.
At first, we packed for them, but as the years passed,
They were experts at rolling clothes for twice the space,
Using laundry baskets rather than luggage tripled our carriage.
We'd leave early Saturday morning, almost night,
Departing from the Ontario weather like a bad odour.
Kathleen was away at school.
Mags and Andrea were in their teens now.
Ten years of March madness was terminating.
Herself would sit shotgun with Triptik and thermos.
The kids would awaken south of the Ohio,
Hungry, grumpy, and eager.
She had it all planned out.
Crosswords, colouring, wordfinds, books, Gameboys, lace,
Sandwiches, juice boxes, treats of all sorts,
For another twenty hours on the road.
I invariably imagined our Mini in the return lane
As we crossed the Bluewater Bridge into Michigan;
Trip over, kids exhausted, us, quiet, subdued,
Just wanting our own bed.
But twenty hours on the I-75 lay ahead,
Turn left at Knoxville
For Myrtle Beach, sun, tennis, seafood,
Separation.
I found no peace in our final escape.
Conversation with her had halted.
A round-trip of dialogue in my head.
She'd said, I bought a house.
Words wrapped like an egg-salad sandwich.
It was our March break.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
Toward the end of every year, Christmas comes again,
To life the tired spirits for those of us who can
Celebrate with lights and trees and carols that we sing,
And all the warm and happy smiles expensive presents bring.
But December twenty-fifth to some is just another day
To bear alone like all the rest that drain their lives away.
Come take a look at holidays for folks you might have missed
As you hurried by them to buy your family's gifts.
Sara Jenkins limped along the sidewalk on South Main,
Her ancient, failing body was bent with cold and pain.
Her ***** fingers held the bags storing all she owned;
She walked alone and spoke to ghosts of people she had known.
The shoppers on the sidewalk stepped out of her way,
The sight and smell of Sara drove them all away.
No one knew old Sara, no one wanted to;
No one had the time for her with Christmas things to do.
She hobbled down an alleyway behind The Deli Suite,
To find the empty packing crate she crawled inside to sleep.
She turned a corner, dropped her bags and gave an awful howl,
A delivery truck had crushed her crate against the Deli’s wall.
Sara scrambled to the crate, and pulled the boards away
She searched around until she found a photo in a frame.
The glass was cracked, the photo torn, but she could see his face.
And his arm around her shoulders in their younger days.
Then the wind whipped up around her, she pulled her sweater tight.
Sara knew she needed warmth to make it though the night.
She saw a rusty dumpster where she used to look for food,
The only thing the dumpster held were rags and broken wood.
She packed the rags around her, underneath her clothes
And looked about to find a spot to sleep out of the snow.
But the alley didn’t hold a place to lay her tired head,
So Sara walked up to the truck and tried the door instead.
She braced herself and pulled, the truck’s door opened up,
And Sara’s life grew by one night thanks to random luck.
The driver of the truck had quit at noon that day,
And left his lunch behind him in his haste to get away.
A thermos and a lunch box were lying on the floor;
Now Sara had a meal and a place out of the storm.
She gathered up her battered bags and slid onto the seat,
Locked the doors, settled back, and ate the driver’s meal.
Tomorrow he may come back, and then she’d have to leave,
But time for that tomorrow, tonight was Christmas Eve.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC