Indication

I see an old woman with a crooked nose walk across the room that I write in.

Speaking

to a friend about Tammy

and I think

what else is new.

I go back to my page

an army of cottonwood flows past my face

like legions of killers, they harass my mind

dulling my senses.

My cup of water is half full

or perhaps half empty

but it is water just the same.

Crystal clear bravado is embarrassing in this quiet room like this.

The door opens and shuts

like lungs inhaling and exhaling some kind of foreign air.

I take my gaze back to the lovers.

The white boy still clinging to his Arabic sweetheart.

Appealing,

I think,

but I am interrupted by the mad man

who calls this young girl a killer

seeing only her country behind her violet eyes

and not the fact that she's crazy in love.