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Shells are there for ProtectionThe turtle had been without her shell,
For quite some time.
She had gotten to where,
She didn't even want it
Life was full.
People started asking her questions,
She didn't know the answer to.
People started doing things
She didn't want to believe happened.
She went home,
And looked at the shell,
In the back corner.
She knew she couldn't put the shell back on,
She knew she was too big for it.
She knew she couldn't fit.
But she wanted it back,
So very badly.
She knew she couldn't undo things.
She knew that it was too late.
But she wanted to,
So very badly.
If you had told her,
All that would happen,
After she took off her shell,
She would have called you crazy.
But now she knew,
That not all questions have answers,
And that shells are there for protection.
Mewtwo, My Old FriendWhen I was little,
I watched Pokemon enough to want a plush Pikachu.
When my mother took me out to get one,
There weren't any,
But there was another plush in the box.
It looked strong,
And his facial expression held secrets.
I looked at the tag,
Still learning to read,
“Yes, Mom, I'd like this one.”
I remember the good times we had.
He battled invisible enemies at the park.
He read with me at the library.
I always wondered why he was so strong looking.
I knew he was a special Pokemon,
But I didn't know why.
One day, my parents and I went on a trip.
We had to stay in a hotel over night.
Our hotel room, it was large,
So large, that Mewtwo wondered off,
And got lost.
I had to leave without my comrade.
I had learned that Mewtwo was a legend.
I had learned his origins,
His back story,
But I had forgotten the Mewtwo
That was a past best friend.
I beat Pokemon X,
And waltzed into his cave.
I threw a Quick Ball,
And he was mine.
When I took him out,
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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