by Greg Santos
I hopped onto the Metro.
The water pickpocketed his swimming trunks.
Her boots reflected the Northern lights.
My spear leaned against the ancient tree and had a catnap under the shade.
The accordion is on its last wheeze.
The vending machine isn’t really out of change; it’s just greedy.
The subway pole likes being held by strangers.
My fingernails tease my toenails about their looks, but they’re just insecure.
The leather backpack has dreams of grazing in a pasture by a red barn
but always forgets its dreams in the morning.
The salt and pepper shaker gossip about the bread basket.
The cup of espresso is addicted to heartache.
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