after the lime twist

he flicks off a lime twist

shoots the scene

kills it

waits for a second sunset


the tip of a night’s face

appears on a hand towel

he sighs

crawls through a fine tooth comb

the plot advances


waiting until daybreak

he takes a trip down random street

sits a spell

smoke in one hand

mindset in the other

while the day

quietly tows away

the hellos

the ifs

and the maybes


prose is a gently worn scarf

out for an evening stroll

don’t point your finger at me


by mary ann blinkhorn