When Trouble came to visit
he limped into the open mic
with bourbon on his breath,
sweat in his shirt, a broken cane.

He took his seat, made himself
at home, planted long feet.
The room delivered prairie prophecies.
Quiet. White. No one yelled.

A woman took him home,
spread apricot on toast
to make him stay. He did.
And she unzipped that name.


3 Responses to “Trouble”

  1. Fey says:

    I delivered holy water.
    Melted some demons
    A. Wa

  2. dorelldrake says:

    Seems that a fella with sweat in his shirt and limping on a cane would probably need a drink from time to time. ; ) just sayin!

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