The rain hit the roof like tiny silver buttons, spilling into ripples all across the yard. We raised our heads and our eyes molded into the crater of a sky, the threads of water shooting straight into us as we tried to count the clouds. We were no longer in some paved backyard in small-town suburbia, we were no longer kids with school in the morning, we were no longer newspaper-reading, traffic-light-obeying, pulse-dropping mindless members of humanity; we were ghosts of ourselves, tied to the earth, dead flesh brought to life.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Sloth, by Thalia Patrinos
I’ll be waiting for when the night-time crowds diminish
Into glittering shadows, after the masqueraders carouse past three
Watch them dance their night and paychecks away
Pining for pandemonium, aching to ingest a riot
I’ll wait for them to be done with their beers and bar sluts
When they all crawl home, all the nighttime crowds
All the women who have done what counts as cheating now
The criminals, the career engineers, all the bipolar bad girls
Everyone between picture-perfect and neglected-nude
When they crawl home I’ll be waiting in their beds
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