by emma blowgun
my roommate and i have decided
that we may be better for each other than
any woman ever could be while we watch
the smoke sift under our bedroom door and
out into the living room of our two bedroom apartment,
number ten, and settle on the furniture, and we tell the
smoke “no, you’re not allowed to be on the furniture in
our home.” and just when we’re about to destroy it
with commercial air-freshener spray, we hear 2 gunshots
out the window we keep open for ventilation, followed by
low sounding voices yelling about who-knows-what,
(cocaine), and then a fading silence. the police never show up.
“we live in a forsaken town, we live in an even more forsaken time,”
says my roommate. indeed.
it’s 3:28am in a place further away from culture, decency, and
courage than anywhere else i know.
but before we figure out what to do about that,
we need to take care of the apartment.
“it smells like weed in here”

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