Wordsmith

poetry

Friday, August 22, 2008

Nothing Fits

Nothing fits.

I swallow.

Coffee

like it is a cure.

I wade in you.

Wait for

forever,

the number

printed on my ticket.

They just called

“28.”

And coffee gives me jitters.

(Bug.)

I tap all thirty toes.

Or they are fingers.
Posted by Heather Hong at 10:12 AM
Labels: bug coffee

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