Thursday, June 25, 2009


I used to sit on the pink velvet couch
forsaken in the concrete basement hallway
of the art building, a sharp contrast
like a pearl basking within its drab oyster shell

then a pert little flea bit me
on the back of my hand, below the wedding ring,
and I took to a metal foldout chair that was hidden
in the back, behind wooden desks
and piles of brick

I sit in the cold, florescent hallway
        (that looks so uncannily
        like the beginning of a nightmare
        I sometimes have to pinch myself)
reading my book and glancing at my watch
and when strangers coming out of basement offices
ask, "are you waiting for someone?"
I never know what to say

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