Your not the tempest, your the tempted. Your a tathered shell, dripping rain and dropping weight. From a cloudless drizzle you sweat, and the taste of salt that once seasoned now stale, alite on your tongue, and the morose afterbirth from a covered victims crossing.
Twice that’s been said.
“What dis?” The fattening overcoat, torn and wasting paper to me turns.
“What dis shit I smell?”
“Piss?” I quess. For all I know it could be.
“You gon drik it?” He is the froth, I gathered as much.
“Might taste less desirable if you did.” I mention to the coat, convincing it to pick up the jar infront of us.
“Piss.” He confirms, licking back the last of salty drips.
“Ya wat som?” He is the tempter now.
“No.”
Morning cools. The sun has quit for sometime; flustered brown jackets with their jars of excriment stumble away for a nap. I am still hunting for food. One basket, a ways back showed promise, from a distance. Then, as I crawled upon the top a garbage man, his gloves stained by the blood of many a trashbag lifted not only me but the can as well into the back of a green monster. I road there, on it’s top for the rest of the morning. Soon enough I’ll roll of to the street, bouncing heavily on the blacktop. Maybe this time I’ll get knocked out for longer then a few seconds.
Maybe then I can find something to eat.
Matthew Newton
DOC #81868
