>wretched

January 24, 2006 § Leave a comment

>Still no job, no responses. My feet are cold. It’s not so much the temperature as the persistence of the same kind of weather. It’s dirty wet, and I’m watching the wind roll an empty 2-liter 7-up bottle around the street. I don’t know if it’s the weather or my disposition or some combination of the two that makes feel pity for inanimate things outside.

The rusted straps of metal on the decapitated barrels made into flower pots.

The sprockets on the bikes riding by.

The stout, sentinal of a fire hydrant.

The hoody that could never keep a person warm in this weather.

Bent metal signs with gravity pulling their ligaments.

Skeletal frames of billborads.

Cords to pay-phones.

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