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House Sitting There is nowhere for going or moving. Better expect brownouts better gather up the broken potted plant and wipe down the counters again and the hum of the dishwasher. Remember how the wind did it and how the wind undid it. They should have called by now so I had some friends over split a whiskey bottle four ways and played baseball in the dark it sailed through the air and I saw the white of it inches too late. My jaw was stone at the time but now this flowering bruise. The morning was raspy and the rain was a boy on the roof that awoke me. The sun is setting soon no door creaking open and dinner won’t serve itself won’t fit in the not-hungry trashcan. I share meals with a magazine cover of a presidential candidate the baggage allowance sheet a pile of old mail and three wilted flowers. I can’t remember the name. They should have called by now so I am emptying the fridge with my teeth but sometimes I am distracted from the devouring by hard light on the leaves of green bushes through window glass. |
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tim morris lives in Richmond Virginia
where he is slowly working on a Master's from Brooklyn
College. Previous work has appeared in The Diagram, Philadelphia Poets and The Drama. He plays bass in a rock
outfit called Ultra Dolphins, hangs out with
his dog, gets sick a lot, sleeps in, eats tofu and
makes off-color jokes with his sweetheart.
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