“Good morning, useless,” he said from behind the curtain of the morning paper.
the trip fantastic
peering through our window,
squinting into the light and
assuming that colour is
“But we just got here.” Jimmy whined as he slumped back into his seat.
I put down my pencil and look back towards the half-open door, but no sound comes, not the barest echo.
How many times will we have to say it? Yell it? Scream it in a crowd in the street?