I find myself disenchanted
with the typical hit and run
at Telegraph, or Dwight.
This time, the blood spurting
from the poor chap's nose
is the color of pavement.
Everything is gray today, washed over
in old movie style. I let out an "aww"
of concern, automatic reaction, before
looking away. I can think as straight
as I can see, which isn't good.
I slowly cross, a small cat
the color of pavement. If I'm lucky,
no one will see me. If I'm lucky,
no one will care either way.
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