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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