Slats
You fell asleep with your socks on and had a bad dream. I watched you twitch, heard you call your mother a bitch. When you woke up, you asked me what's the point of life? I stared into the gloam. There were 22 slats in the blinds.
Phil Lane's poems and stories have been appearing periodically online and in print for the past decade. He lives in New Jersey, works as an English/Writing instructor, and is a Bob Dylan and Boston Terrier enthusiast. He can be found online at twitter.com/thephillane
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