a dancer walks to work
dressed only just less gaudy
than the aging hippy of yore:
her pale, slightly purple hair,
shaking around
dark red tinted glasses,
bucket hat atop it all. shiny and golden
it takes the sun and shoots it back
at me with violence.
the dancer, taciturn, takes us in stride.
Well, it looks like I've majorly lapsed on the poem-a-day habit. Not to worry. I'm taking a short break to finish the Balkey story line....
“What,” the young, scarred and scabbed Scib said, “did Mr. Pin calm him – Bixson-” And Balkey closed the gap as soon as the word left the...
Tell him Coral has finally gone sour and the Pin is as crooked as we all thought,” fryed Balkey and eyed the straight and tall, the...