by Mary Mageau

I’m out again - I need a place to stay tonight. He pushes past me stashing two six packs in my fridge, then walks around quickly: checking all the windows, counting the mailboxes at the front entrance, locking the back door. His arms are full of ink now – all prison tatts, he’s still so edgy and has that same smell of unwashed clothes. He opens a cold beer as we face each other across the kitchen table. "And what about your restriction order?" I’ll be gone tomorrow.


Mary Mageau, who lives "Down Under," writes whenever she can and publishes poetry in Contemporary Haibun, Gusts, Eucalypt, and Paper Wasp.