Rough Edges


Room Magazine - - STEWART -

I curled around the trailer park front door.

You were in the cor­ner, lean­ing in that leather chair, your jaw drag­ging on a loosely rolled cig­a­rette. Rusted to­bacco softly cre­mated. Tap tap.

Em­bers de­posited into an am­ber ash­tray.

I stole a hand­ful of your Planters peanuts. Each salty crunch a de­nied morsel of in­ti­macy. Yet, there was a mo­ment of play.

You lib­er­ated your slick quick­sil­ver hair, cracked a toothy smirk, and ran.

I stared in dis­be­lief, while you lum­bered af­ter the manic squeals of your grand­chil­dren.

I won­der, has death sanded down those rough edges? Could you ut­ter my name one last time.

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