After sleeping all day
on a friend’s pullout,
we buy canned food.

All the bagged pastries
sweating in the convenience

store window face the scaffolding
of the 7 she takes to the schizophrenics,

the woman no one believes.

Cats walk under the dust ruffle
in the apartment where we wash
a handful of plastic forks.

The temple—I keep remembering
the woman tearing white bread
for a cluster of mottled pigeons.

How she disappeared
through the red door.
How she returned with a broom.

— Tyler Mills, author of Tongue Lyre

T. S. Poetry


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