Another NaPoWriMo come and gone. Bye till next year!
Over the Hill to the Poor House
. . . in our bitchin' Camaro, with drinks in the back and cheetos up front, we'll park on the heights and look over the wall, drinking and smoking, and listening to music while the sun goes down behind us and casts our long, bitchin' shadow over the poor house, its wee inhabitants suitably wretched as they potter around the yard, keeping an eye out for Dickensian beadles and shifty-moraled teens like ourselves. We are supposed (we're often told) to look upon them as a sort of warning, but what the hell can you tell teenaagers: we don't believe in death or taxes and with our bitchin camaro, cheetos, and awesome allowances, we certainly will never join them down below, tiny shadows without music, gathering below in dark.