First Frost
there were these two kids on a winter bench. one reading Brontë, a face still damp from a summer that wouldn’t quit, braces glinting under the grey sky. next to him, the other one, cheeks whipped red by the frost, jaw set hard. a boy already half-armoured. they kept stealing looks, trying to stuff the
Mice
I need something else. something other than the static quiet. the heater is dead. the night frozen stiff outside, six below and dropping. I’m lying here in this wide-awake bedroom, grease from Las Iguanas still rolling in my stomach, a bad engine. refried beans burn a hole through the gut, sour and heavy. but worse