Glacier Vs. Microwave
Scuffed leather, a wild cobra in repose. I folded my ladder and
pressed my face against my chest. I entered the gazebo in my chest in
what is considered by most to be the traditional way, by the stairs
using my feet. Friendly monks left the glacier with a wretched moan.
In trying to be democratic, they learned how to fish through quiet
committee hearings. I once met these precious dwellers, reminiscing
about haunted houses and a backyard filled with made models. The
wood-glue still stuck on my tongue, and I planned to visit the
Bastille. I sat captivated by the cluster of noodles, the other
passengers asking me if we would crash on time. I felt special for a
moment playing tennis inside my chest, and I remarked to the cobra as
much while he chomped cleanly through the sanctuary of others, in what
is to be considered from now on to be the traditional way.
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At the time of publication, Steve Roberts is on a bus to Boston. He is a Texan living in Brooklyn. He writes poetry.