It’s a rainy Seattle
It’s eight bucks a hit
It’ll take you to market
And fuck with your shit
By a stinky ass ocean
Our mussels are brined
In what, I don’t know and
I don’t want to find out
Then the paper hits hard
And I wobble seawards
I then find myself dying
On a curb in Sand Point
It’s a dreary Seattle
Three days into June
It’s a miserable poem
(I know, but I wanted to reach out
and didn’t know how, then I thought
a postcard and a poem might be a
good idea but I couldn’t put in words
what I wanted to say so I said nothing)
Hey, BVW!
I’ll try to call you here soon.
- Afton Light, 2021
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