Wretch

 You saved a wretch like me, you cannot even talk and put this mind in a sanatorium because I don't need to think to be all heart to you

The policemen in the city cannot breastfeed and raucous kids dishevel our roof gutters
and play at it like swords
It's unknown if Mona Lisa was mother but the lady in the park this morning
in these days of dead leaves, of November, of remembrance, of hallow's eve, of golden leaves
sat the toddler on those leaves and took a snap, and I like the confidence in how she did it.
Her smile was younger than her.

An unhinged blonde lady with a ripped jacket and a pink bra above it stormed into our cafe while we were having babyccino, yelling something but none gave her any attention. She was seeing later confronting an Indian lady in the square who in response throws a bottle at her.

There are good days and
buds of goodness even in murky,
derailed roads
And as my conviction the benevolence of the face is a proclivity for hydrated skins,
the repetition of good deeds makes voluminous hair and glittering skincare and contributes to the mental sanity of the people.






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