novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- i miss you; come home the uhaul rental place is also a laundromat. there are signs taped to the wall that shout slogans such as retirement is my reward for not shooting my boss she climbs into the bed of the truck and i watch its brake lights falter. blink like a tired bat. spark like pulled cigarettes. the rain mixes with my hair spray and turns my crown into a damp tangle. we load the uhaul precariously, acrobatically, balancing pieces of bed and bookcase against hips as we press lightly against steep, soaked stairs. i held planks of white pressboard under each arm and declared myself an outdated flying machine. 11:45 pm - 12.30.04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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