Fresh, minty ghosts curl around me block out the scent of singed sinners. In the diaphanous daylight, they are invisible like indifference. But in the cool colored twilight of my youth,
I see their visages, their eyes gaping holes and their mouths smiles taped on. I, too, am a scrapbooker in the government waiting rooms of life. Cut out of my purple womb, a poem so sublime my guardian angel won’t read it without his shades on. I stick a ghost on my tongue. He sizzles and evaporates, leaving that wonderful cold scent of freshness. Behind me, the warm aroma of Regret baking my blue birthday cake.
