Wilson Pickett

Wilson Pickett

Cold permeates the inside of the house. Sudden movements stir a dormouse feasting in the corner of the floor. The meniscus of water in the cup gives tiny tremors with nearbye steps of some unknown thing in the darkened room next door.

She wanders the hall in sulken pose and constant grimace. Hating, watching and waiting, she loathes all but boyish men. The shroud she left with still clung around the neck. A loss felt through this world and the next.

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: