a plaintive grin and a stack of pennies now strewn about the floor; now just a laugh into a dark corridor with the evening playing tricks on the mind when it’s mine. when it’s yours, you falter. and i, in time for nothing but a maniacal windfall or a tight-lipped angel of the nth degree. sure it should’ve been different. and sure it could’ve been fine. but oh, with a language so limited; all in all a drunkard’s dream or a slimming smile or devalued copper, seeming altogether damned amidst a portion of paint, peeling, now laid back and humming like the summer breeze along the siding, leaving it made of dirt and sticks.
a giggle into the night.
a crime upon no shimmy up the drainpipe.
a laugh and a crash and the roof caves in.