Stories with a horse, ghosts, depression, alcohol, houses

Chicago Cold

I remember when whiskey on our breath was the norm

Soles bruised and cracked,

running through the neighborhood to Lake Michigan.

Your Keds.

Waves loud enough to knock out pain,

man-placed boulders to contain lunging black water,

dirty with sunscreen and unfound dead bodies.

Jean bottoms wet.

14 and 16.

One thought on “Chicago Cold

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