in the dark with a squeegee
She whaps it downward like a mace.
The blue fluid that sometimes freezes,
spraying from the tattered sponge, spitting
alien goop along the busted sidewalk. The
night is bitterly cold and I think she's alone,
doing this alone, sloughing off winter residue,
dressed like she is in frayed layers of red and
blue, her small hand white as milk, gripping
the broken handle, working it like a weapon,
like it will kill the thing that killed her.
Adam Middleton-Watts is an oddball British expat writing from the flatlands of South Dakota. When he's not dissolving in the midst of a savage summer or fattening up for the next brutal winter, he's writing poems and stories on the backs of unpaid utility bills and drinking too much dark ale. He has had words printed in many a magazine, and can tell a bison from a handsaw.