Still, the pumpkins sit and shrink
on the fat wrap-around porch. Frost
slicks the rough of that crawling,
sappy odor
every morning. Midday, and he's
timed the stink to seconds.
'Knew it'd be here 'round 12, yup'
His hair comes and goes, like his
weight, coke-broke, tied to his
rocking chair. His mouth held together
by a hump of chewing 'bacca.
'pass me 'at baggie ta ya leff'
'and i won't you ta tell meh bout
whatsername one more time'
.
Comments
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the last lines are sad but overall good
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