Stretch marks.

Silver ripples

on a pearl pond, he says.

I don't need him to love them, but

it helps.

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Kemah Bob

The chime-chirp glint in your talk

pep-drawling, through my grit-clogged Samsung speaker

like a wise blue hedgehog with salacious 

pips and chings of playground secrets

makes my covid swab a shade less eye-popping.

My cobbled, shapeless day seem masterful.

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Thank you, dears.

For marched words

rawed bare, from

placard rage

to simpered

platitudes.

For now, plain,

awful grief

is just. Mine.

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