Poetry

Caper's Poets

In The Desert — Neila Mezynski

Peter lived in the foothills. By himself. Excavating, he said. People knew he wasn’t looking for precious ore. Peter was hiding. People, bah, prickly pears and rattlesnake droppings. Zoftic Sarah enters. At a social dysfunction group, Peter met winsome Sarah and was immediately smitten by the phobic runaway princess who was hiding from her deranged kingly father who had just the right guy for her. Independent Sarah took a cotton to Peter and invited him to her pink bed.  Often. Peter went. Pinkly.  Flickers of lights in windows of little yellow houses, tangled ringlets on fresh pillow cases, the number three, yipping dogs, baby. Burning a hole in Peter’s usually detached mind.  Boyhood dad, unfinished childhood. Dad. Me, Princess Sarah, before the fat lady sings and the sticky syrup called beautiful life.

Filed under: Issue 3, Neila Mezynski,

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