1 minute read
At the Races
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.
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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.