she told me that she wears nylons
so her veins won’t fall out of her legs.
I imagine all those red rivers
converging at her feet.
a puddle of
something so dark.
she urges me to hug her
every day. I might not
be here tomorrow,
she whispers.
the two of us
lean back in our
matching recliners.
a dove lands on the porch railing.
it slowly coos us to sleep.
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