“Morning Scotch” by Sandra Ketcham

Fevered, or
drunken. Gravel cracks
beneath

your swollen sway. In
this place I am
the ninja. I

porched rusted tins of
paint to signal
your arrival, to

scare the neighbor-
hood zombies
away. Their

blank faces haunt
me. And you,
eyes half closed,

taunt conspiracy with laughter.

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