huck

We met in the morning, and
the child kept us up at night.
We met in the morning, and
something extraordinary happened:
the afternoon saw me hypnotised
by wind chimes hanging from the
ceiling of a two-bedroom flat, and
the child kept us at night.
Tina, six years old. She laughed
when I barked at the television,
and saw somehow through my
railings, through the costume
of Angry Young Man. Her good
mother, however, contributed to
ire, though only when her teeth
were pink.
There were no days in the park,
as such, no postcard moments to
speak of. Generally we roamed the
market, where my senses came
alive and affections annealed to a
stern charge of guardianship. We
were a trio amidst a torrent.
"Buy her this." "No. You're
obsessed with things. Besides, I
can't afford it." "I'll pay." "Suit
yourself."
I can't say for sure why she
encouraged an end; her face
gave nothing away, least of all
her baby. I guess the weeks we
shared evinced no future. I miss
their fridge-door missives laid like
rivulets of blood.
We met in the morning, and
the child keeps her up at night.