“Hoppin John”

journal work, Poetry, writing

What’s the saying again? ‘If you boil a frog in water…’?

I ate cake for the new year.         I was drinking          I was an island.                                                                                                                                          Everybody somehow knew everyone else, they were all strung in lights and ice.

This part of town was somewhere I’d been before. I liked it, next to the women’s shelter. Those parts which were not burned. The paint yet to be retouched, left half-finished for lack of stamina.                          There was a memorial nearby, condemned to a background history       a heavy red curtain where one could hear movement but not see it.

Dark times.

A very dry winter,                        so short yet retaining a density which challenges elasticity;

a long, long piece of gum, strained and stretched very far.

I ate cake; yellow cake. It had that frosting on it, the cheap kind. So the caps were all off.  A toast to the New Year:            ashes to ashes.

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