he works his wool hat with
fingers he has nowhere to wash
the baby is still coughing
that wet haze washes beneath the door—
a constant, brittle chill that finds its way through wood and tar
to wander through rooms once bright,
now barren—
fuel for the fire
twelve days on strike
now thirteen
he bites his lip
Kyrie eleison
and makes the cross
pigeon for tea
the missus not pleased
bony back
rump reduced to flat ham
sour fruit
pigeon for tea
no kisses from the missus
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!
—Gabriel Muoio
$1.00
