A man warns me not to drink standing water
in the garage. He is imaginary, a result
of the nights I keep watch after the flood.
City residents wander neighborhoods at all hours,
in search of dry rooms. In my pocket I carry
a pistol and a pack of gum. The man’s face
deteriorates into bone and blood after every bit
of wisdom. He is always beautifully whole at the start.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 2.
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