Stories of fog

When we were little children ,we watched
A neighbor auntie stirring her stone pestle
To  grind a smooth paste  for  night’s meal.

She would tell tiny boys monsters’ stories.
Her monsters grew up in a grinding stone,
Their lives hid in parrots in far off islands.

The auntie has lost her stories to dementia.
Soon we would forfeit her to  morning fog.
A  grind goes on till everyone is in his fog.

Now we are a business of grinding stories.
But  monster souls still tick in old parrots
While parrot selves are awaiting their fog.


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