|
|||||||||
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
|
|||||
|
|||||||||
|
His journey did not consist of much at all... His journey did not consist of much at all, a bottle of Sambuca, a sweaty grin, and a big thumb inside his jeans. The yellow drapes of her room blew in where they drank and spoke. From time to time she scratched her hips with a lazy fingernail. After a while they stopped talking. The air was furious with summer. They watched each other warily, the yellow drapes blowing over them. Published in Out/Words #3 (view contents) Discuss this work in our Forum Back to poetry - main |