Her mother is dying. She’s made it very clear, through photographs and a description—that description, of fluids and fallacies.

He wants more coffee. He’s made it very clear, waving his thick, ragged index my way, under that crisp foam hat, amidst wrinkles and a livid complexion.

She’s a single mom. She’s making it clear, that her food stamps make it alright to go out on Saturday night, to leave her son with the Dad she mistook for forever, or just mistook.

He’s balding. It’s so clear, it’s painful and alarming. His mustaches conceals hours of sports statistics, and he’s a phony.

She thinks I’m a little demon. In jest she’s made it clear, and she’s willing to borrow me her cat any given day, for the sake of not being alone.