seasonal depression
by Erika Hommel
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November edges her way every year, corduroys hideously scraping against a concrete rooftop ledge. Sitting there, legs befallen to nothing in particular but over thinking and obscene gestures completed with her long toes. Tied to nothing or no one in particular, so now city's steam can pull back the modest day's petty coats to reveal eight long years since she was naturally sullen. Perhaps they wonder why the phone is smothered in cobwebs, the art of speech not liquored is a difficult feat, one left for stable bodies of sound minds. An Ohio sky preempts slumped latitudes, stitched in thick wool sweaters, mittens, boots and cold, soaked pant tips. We all hang on hand outs and puppet strings, left to whims of indifferent weather. Sentences that end up being questions lay limp on the altar for the doctor and scotch still burns the crowded leaves outside yellow, red and crispy brown.
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