Number Three: We are alone.

Watercolour in sketchbook.

Watercolour in sketchbook.

She is alone

in her hippy togs.

Her purse screams with

raised eyebrows and frilled

flaps. The

felt collects dust from

endless years. The

folds in her chin collect

tv dinners and Jeopardy.

She pretends not to see me

looking at her.

The owl on her purse

can’t seem to look away. I cross

my eyes at it and wiggle my fingers.

She notices me.

Definitely.

Will I be her

when I am old?

Swathed in owls,

a wing over my shoulder

and a beak in my side.

I might be able to twist my

head around. I’d glare at the

biddies sitting behind me. In

the end I’d be picked raw. My flesh

would be pecked off of bone

in great slabs. My eyes would

be slurped and my brain would be

hollowed.

She definitely notices as

my head lurches and

twists. My tongue rolls out

as she walks

away.

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This entry was published on Wednesday, August 6, 2014 at 4:19 pm. It’s filed under Artwork, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “Number Three: We are alone.

  1. Pingback: The Owl Lives | Emily Storvold

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