green apron, she held her face
all scrunched up,
because I ordered a black coffee
and not a fancy drink.

there was tumbleweed
in a glass display case at the library,
with a dried up skull, and scorpions.
are we inside a larger display?

black ink, the smell
on my fingertips
lingers —
it reminds me of the ol’ 10 cent days

the bell tolled for the fifth —
don’t ask me for whom.
I think he played Strauss,
but I’m not certain.

black fedora, leans against a tree
earphones always on
no input, no output;

banned books, they’ve made a comeback,
I’d say.
my favorite was by Chaucer;
I yell “Victorie!” inside my own head.