Rust
I am in a tree house I’m too heavy
for. A sip of whiskey and a hand-rolled
smoke as I look out the only window. It’s raining on everything. A trailer that
hasn’t been used in years and a rusted shed full of rusted tools. It’s raining
on everything and everything is wet. Everything but me. I have the tree house.
It’s maybe not the good life, but it’s the good-enough life. The washer and
dryer sitting on the covered deck next to the trailer. Everything painted
metal, pimpled and blistered with rust.
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