CHARRED

Darkly you move and you smell chemical, like burning plastic, like the interior of a vintage 1970s Thunderbird that has sat too long in the blazing sun outside the shopping mall. Your joints creak and click with each tortured motion, your stubby feet leave angular soot marks on the linoleum kitchen floor. Watching your hand move by millimeters toward the faucet, the anticipation is intense. We hold our breath, waiting, waiting for the inevitable sizzle and pop.




 






















































Jeffrey Park
i n o r g a n i c