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It’s like a trip.

We’re looking out into hot vacation world, singing old man songs.

Tomorrow, I’ll put this into a special box, line it with red velvet,

Hold this humid air until it goes stale.


I got this picture out of a big old green book,

And filled in the crannies

With simple, organized days.

Schedules, free time, and the quiet after my last gulp of bedtime milk.

With mumbling about tomorrow morning, the pauses, what comes before and after a hiccup.

With postcards of little girls with chubby thighs, wearing ruffled bathing suits,

Digging their feet into the sand.

Seaweed grabs at their ankles,

Their feet stand on sand mountains, while the water pulls the extra sand away.

It tickles the arches of their feet.


Over and over again,

I’ll stand on the kitchen tile,

In bare feet with leftover pink nail polish.

Two bags of groceries at a time.

One frying pan, one pot, and a strainer.

A four-cup coffee maker, two mugs, broken in,

Disposable salt and peppershakers,

After dinner weeknight television,

A ceramic bowl filled with popcorn between your right and my left knee.

A sliding glass door that I wipe each Saturday because my mother reminds me it gets better light that way.

Dinnertime, bedtime, morning, and afternoon all right where they’re supposed to be.

Photo courtesy of Elmer Dubon



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