Sat underneath the tin heater,
sleeves rolled up to stocky elbows
wrapped in Mötley Crüe tattoos,
a dreaming mutt at her feet below.
Her mind in stasis, clouded in
heat and chocolate stouts, stuck on
29 down: “Prost,” six letters.
Originally published March 2016
I really enjoy your poetry, you two.
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Thank you Ann – always more to come!
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