3 Prose Poems
Naa Asheley Ashitey
I'll say the metformin must be working. You'll tell me to message my doctor, ask about upping the dose.
I grass-skied down the camp hill in my non-specialist shoes, drifted into the icy endzone with the kids,
Our social circles had overlapped for more than a decade. To everyone here, I was first an old acquaintance, a fixed figure of their long past. Not the person I was today.
I showed up at a bar that served free meatballs in a red slip I bought at my local Chinese dollar store, hoping to get high on a charmed stranger.
I'll say the metformin must be working. You'll tell me to message my doctor, ask about upping the dose.
I feel a change coming on. I want to travel more. I want to visit Vietnam, and Transylvania; I want to watch the sun go down along the Nile.
Murray would be my only American-born super. He was big and fat and had a very productive-sounding cough and he always dressed in the same dirty white T-shirt and the same baggy corduroy pants whenever I saw him—summer, winter, spring and fall.
Love is like a museum. You have to look around, experience things, and then leave.
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