The Dreaded Question

My naive
little toss
and paste
doesn’t stick

She stares back
those bright
infested eyes
flecks of lettuce
green
I am a string
toy

daring to lose

I shake
crumbles
of cement dust
from my hair
while she licks
debris off my face
with that awful
purring

the question

swirls about
the room
caught in
the draft
and rising heat

Running a day behind on the Daily Inkling. This is for the post of the same name: The Dreaded Question

This poem is part two to yesterday’s poem, Inked.

Z

3 thoughts on “The Dreaded Question

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