prose poetry Tag

girl waiting for the bus

Waiting for the bus

She waits at the bus stop one afternoon and her daydreams succumb to the summer heat. Vision blurs as her gaze is absorbed by the shimmering mirage on the road and she is far away in the desert somewhere, delirious, or on drugs. And then into her

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You died that day

You died that day, a Monday in May. 8am traffic is always worse on Mondays. Hooters denote all flavours of bad language as a polka-dotted vehicle turns right in a left-only lane, and a man with no legs riding a wheelbarrow weaves between the stopped-up patchwork of

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broken egg shells


I offered to help you peel hard-boiled eggs earlier. You said no, I’d break them like I did last time. Last time, I said, the eggs were over-cooked. Stuck to their shells. It wasn’t my fault. I don’t like peeling eggs anyway. Last Christmas, I gave you glasses.

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