Delta
Aug 24, 2017 · 1 min read
Find a house; don’t get the house.
Too much, too little. Look — the ceiling’s caving in.
No, not really.
Feels that way.
Good house.
Two packs of cigarettes on the curb. Empty.
Everyone is smiling. They must be wonderful at searching.
Am I not looking?
They aren’t pretty smiles. They never need to be.
The south isn’t pretty.
Not the land. Stop — quit badmouthing an entire demographic.
He had a shirt on. It barely rested on his shoulders.
“Can you help me get a bite to eat?”
Not tonight. I don’t plan on eating.
Two feet in the delta.
One grain at a time, off to create some altered geologic monument.
The whiskers of some monstrous beast kiss his leg.