There’s a magistrate in the fridge:
It’s time to get rid of these old ass tamales.
Freezer burn babies of beef and cheese and I step into quiet wasteland.
Not a desperate land for Mad Max. Just cold emptiness like Gravity.
Big, Snorlax man outside the market. Beard like Klaus. Fingernails that pulled flowers from Golden Gate Park.
N95 masks headed in and out as though tear gas wailed around like the Kashmir Valley.