Got News, Part 7
It’s almost spring again. A gain, a gin. Aging, raging. I can still see you with solitaire, your pepsi and gin. A gun rack of rifles overhead until the law changed and made you hide them where they were to be locked up. At least I never knew where they went. You kept the rack up, invisible guns, the rack as proof there were some near. sun thru the cat’s ears cloud
