Ken Pobo

In my gymís sauna, I pretend Iím in Lapland talking with my ancestors about movies, oldies, and hunky men. If others are here, especially guys, I stopper this fantasy, knowing I could be pulverized like that kid in Wyoming. A huge man walks in barking at another man about whores who trick you out of your pants and money. He is so loud, I remember The Wizard of Oz cyclone, wonder where will I drop when his hot air stops our spinning? July. My canna lilyís orange nail polish. Today the pool seen through tinted glass, a blue lake in sudden Finland. ****

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