joseph

joseph was like a tangerine, always round, mostly orange, all except for his toes however which were blue and sticky and covered with wooly socks. His chicken legs stuck out, storky stalks of rubber attached to that sick little orange belly. “a real sight” the woman at the fish market would say, “a real sight.” And a sight he was like a ball of florescent dough shinning in the trees as he swung back and forth on his tire swing, singing like a huge number of mice falling from the sky—it was positively beautiful.