we stand huddled
outside smoking
and shooting the
proverbial shit.
look there, across
the street. inspiration
comes in all forms.
the sick lady no one
knows what's wrong with.
electric wheelchair
sputtering. she crosses
the parking lot comically
towing a wagon, kid
heaped beneath
piles of warmth.
manuevers inside to buy
more cancer. she can't
escape the inconvenience
or the death,
haunting her and the
silly boy she parades
around town. he stares
in wild eyed wonder
as we all do
at the befuddling and
hilarious spectacle that
remains her life.
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