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By Kevin Ridgeway

Draped in her regal moo-moo
she fixates on the
abbreviated young peasant manifestos
screaming from my t-shirt
her peanut brittle mitts
form a death grip around my hand
as the flames of Bonanza engulf
the television screen with a
jarring “Chyaa!”
as we sip from cups
emblazoned with
obscure cartoon characters
from the distant past.
the Chase and Sanborn sawdust
scratches and burns my throat
but she slugs the slop like a champion
“You need to go out and make whoopee”
she repeats over and over again
and laughs herself into a narcotic nap
she’s going to die soon
and although I don’t get to make “whoopee”
I want these wretched old cups.

Orginally appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, forthcoming in Contents Under Pressure from Crisis Chronicles Press

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