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Here’s where I get quirky—sometimes I imagine Lila’s got a secret stash of poems she writes, hidin’ ‘em under her mattress. Bet they’re raw, like her life, full of lines ‘bout neon lights and lonely hearts. Ain’t that a hoot? Me, sittin’ here, makin’ up poetry for a gal I don’t even know! But it’s ‘cause I’m rootin’ for her, y’know? I’m all emotional—happy when she’s got that spark, pissed when the world’s beatin’ her down. Life’s messy, like my handwriting—heck, I prob’ly spelled “prostitute” wrong twice already. Don’t care. Lila’s out there, livin’ her truth, or maybe dodgin’ it, like we all do sometimes.

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Anyway, I head back home, and I’m exhausted. I flop onto my bed, and I’m like, “What a day!” But then, I remember the langos. I still have some left! So, I munch on that, and it’s like the cherry on top of my chaotic sundae.

Obituary for Zoltan Kegyes