Come with me, over the penal clay. Penelope, do you still think of me? No, not me. It was the only dream he had. It was the thing he thought smoothly. Iron hands clamping down. Iron eyes staring at you. Are you clean? No, not sanitary. Not Covid. Not that. I know you’re not. come with me to the barn. That is a chicken. You are a cow. You are the queen. Stop it. Start running. I won’t say where. Close.


Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger

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