The Fairy
she blew in after the lunch bells had faded. Sunday, round two in the afternoon. Beautiful in a pale whirl, dancing and floating between aisles in the vortex air of the slow train rumbling toward London. suspended there, afloat in the rattle and sway of the rails. she drifted into the baggage jungle, over the
Lemon and Poppyseed
the tube’s jammed tighter than a whorehouse on payday, bodies mashed up like sardines in a tin that’s been kicked down the stairs one too many times. they say lambs to the slaughter get more room to wiggle before the knife, and right now I believe it. I’ve got some poor bastard’s armpit parked under