Prose Poem. What's a Prose Poem? Kate Ellenberger Drinking Warm Beer By Herself. by W.F. Roby

Kate Ellenberger, twenty-seven cents and a good sailboat. Kate Ellenberger, night-time dramas on the television. Kate Ellenberger, my neighbor's piddling baby talk. Kate Ellenberger, of course you're at the center of the ice storm.
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The stars were playing tricks on him. Lingering among the crumbling Washington D.C. corners like burning street lights in the darkness; a glimmer of hope, a silver flirtatious wink, a flashing bright smile; they knew all along they had no interest in being touched. The shimmering dirty teases. Olivio wanted to spit at the sky, but he knew as a consequence he would be hit in the face with his own stinking saliva. Resolving to not look back up at the sky, hoping it felt heavy and ignored, he scratched his face, sweaty and itchy.

today, she exits latrines of the infinite dream
with their boots knocking dream
contracting at the slightest, not having them safely to us
at the will gnaw along part of the foot