26 notes
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator, and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each:
Who killed the pork chops?
What price bananas?
Are you my Angel?
I heard you asking questions of each:
Who killed the pork chops?
What price bananas?
Are you my Angel?
25 notes
9 notes
1,268 notes
735 notes
33 notes
1,313 notes
96 notes
15 notes
259 notes
14 notes
7,188 notes
142 notes
209 notes
4,170 notes
