Proof of Purchase
She gazes half-past me
one eye on mine, the other
lazy, skewed, past my ear.
But she stares, hard
trying to meet me head on.
She pats, she nudges,
she gestures, trying to rouse
me from my coma.
Stories repeat
I watch, and listen.
Drug busts.
Jail time.
Being bent over a tombstone.
Violation.
And wanting all of it.
“It’s an experience. It’s life. It’s living.”
I nod.
But her stories crash like
desperate drivers colliding.
And when I look into her eyes
she can’t quite meet mine
one is dead on,
the other, unfocused
stares at the past.
And I don’t care enough
to prove
anything.
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