Don’t forget the market on Sunday, Don’t forget your Mama.
Dotted lights spell coffee behind my eyes,
Blonde hair is braided, cutoff, and thrown away – Drowned in an awkward soda.
Cover your mouth. Her eyes dart around the room suspicious of you, followed by a man in yellow…
“You’re writing novels over there?”
Of course only the story of the dream in front me – Reaching for money.
Reaching for candy —
Should I stay with my Uncle?
A man stares down into his green grocery bag, “Where is my money?”