Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats

Smoke

Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats

 

On Friday nights

she puts on Ariats,

clouds of smoke,

clanking shot glasses.

 

She prefers to recline in a dryer chair,

pink lemonade.

At the gas station

practicing checkers,

a pitcher of sun tea. Between lips–

 

bedsheets hung out to dry

through a tiny hole in a

sturdy backyard fence. A brick

church, polished pews,

she tilts her head,

listens–

                silence.

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4 thoughts on “Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats

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