A t the R aces in my periphery no one is a stranger. a spat of ghosts laughing out loud. in a past life I was a clown. I keep a red nose in my pocket that I can don in a pinch. anybody walks in here and orders a macchiato, for instance. hats and faces, faces making kissy-faces braggadocios, putting goose-flesh on my arms. I’m hungry. worms munch until they’re liable of silk. I’m heartbroken like a hobby horse without its track suit. it’s old news. it’s a crying shame, like eating walnuts in the morning.
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