this morning #18.

this morning, the air was thick, his hair frizzed up & matted. he tried to run his fingers through it, untangling the sleep. no success. rubbing his eyes, he propped himself up & flipped off the tv. extra innings & copious beer & sleep had won and, as a result, had the mets won? they had been up by a run. would he now have to run? his scrambled head scrambling for his phone, finding it buried in the couch cushions, button button button app app app. mets win. the mets win! no broken fingers today.