A Waiting Room of Sorts We sit, not together, in a waiting room of sorts She a blue woman, wet behind the ears Myself a red giant of self-gallowed situation Where a metal tube roared upon my mouth Water now riddled her veins She sulks, letting watery residue from her eye Coherent babbles bubbling out of cold, blue face As she slumps into a mangled figure Comfort comes to mind Of me, though, not to her, And a shameful boistrosity escapes me—a small laugh She turns a sharp eye, Dull from antics, blunt with passion, Serrated with awkward young thoughts I consider, briefly, speaking with her Though, frankly, her tragedy isn’t worth this red giant’s time
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dDamian Foreman lives in Central Arizona. He hopes that someday he won’t.
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