Pree, John, String St after MomJean's funeral
This house is old enough to be all of our mothers, I agreed.
I poked inside a brown box in the front room. The dark panels seemed to hold the windows just enough but they managed to slip here and there. The sofa was stained to match broken, where it's arms seemed so pious the center sagged brazenly suggesting elopement or worse. The walls were tanked with drawings and paintings on every kind of surface. Bits of curled paper and dry panel hung from filament and drooped from spun ribbons of muslin. There was a pile of yellow and green photo's on the table. They'd been shuffled to the side in a disordered and hasty manner.
The limits of an unkind, no not that. Hope does spring, John settled on qualifying. Vaughn's sweet. He's young and quotable like that. Oh Vaughn, you know he's tired when he nods off to sleep in his own piss.
The road less traveled leads to better times then these, her hand was candle red. Pree pushed her glass across the table. The bottle was almost gone and the radioset had dimmed a bit as the power slipped into another brownout. I like MomJean's plenty. It hasn't changed much has it?
They were high, I pointed out.
Oh fluff of thy wren tinder of my dawn, She laughed emptying the bottle.
Spirits tank thank booze, She laughed again.
He liked that sound.