Tapped

I thought I heard a stranger in a crowd say my mom’s name this morning. Perhaps she’s just on my mind today.
I’ve been hearing things that aren’t really there the past couple of days. Crickets from his chest, his arm pit – summer crickets. Where do crickets go in the winter? Do they all die, eggs buried, reborn in warmth?
A man behind me this morning sneezed three violent sneezes. Gun shot after gun shot after gun shot. I didn’t dare turn around to look at him. He frightened me and stood too close.
Dear Pat, I almost drank all of my coffee – I probably will in the next 10 minutes. I hope you are proud.
I don’t feel like working on work. I feel like working on this because something feels tapped and I’d rather let it drip.

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