Ben Newell

there would be hell out this window2 51308

“There would be hell out this window” by Aleathia Drehmer

five miles in flip-flops 

It’s no fun
waking up
in a strange bed
with
a strange woman,
hangover exacerbated
by
the utter unfamiliarity
of your surroundings.
You
don’t know
where you are
in relation to the bar;
her cats
dash into hiding
as
you approach the window,
staring at cars
on the street;
no luck,
yours isn’t there—
You vaguely recall
riding shotgun
as she whisked you
back to her lair,
this place
now
encasing you;
hog slaughter snores
slashing off
the walls,
saying it’s time
to cut out
for the city,
a real goddamned city
with better options
or, at the very least,
a decent
transit system.

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