Doug is dressed in his party best,
In a feathered hat and a sequined vest.
With an icy beer in each hand,
He’d rock it out, with the band.
Poker chips and tasty steak,
And all the fun there is to make.
Play the tunes, turn it loud.
Party hard and make me proud.
Photo by moesewco
Moldy sugar and weevily flour, Some rancid butter at the Witching Hour.
“Hold the elevator, please,” said Trudy.
“A strange thing happened on the way to the bus stop,” I said, taking a plate from the rack and wiping it.
I lay awake on the top bunk, listening to my brother’s rhythmic-breathing below me, desperately wishing sleep to overtake me.
