Fred Aiken Writing

coughing up a lung after feeding another addiction

waiting for the other shoe to drop,

become stylized on blank paper with ball point

tipped at the edge in incongruous patterns

feeling for a tug,

a grasp, to hold onto what’s left of remnants

billowing out to a grand expanse,

contract,

expanding contracting differences making up a majority of what’s left

on the table

set for two,

both of whom forgot to pay the meter