Yours is purple he said
over salmon loaf and canned green beans
a Wednesday dinner aura reading
like the Magic 8 Ball
that fell on the sidewalk.
Rounding out like eggplants
the glass halves root
in the grass beside the walk
ink spilling over white concrete
like squid escaping on a cutting board
in the back of the Othello Inn
blue-black streams bearding out
irises with rhizomes
clinging to jagged cracks.
I hear these so-called mad apples
have nicotine centers
second-hand smoke
in a basement bar
where drunks padlock belt loops.
Nothing royal.
Nothing more than dried blood.
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