The Dust At A Whore's Feet

You are not your place. Or else. David's nose bled and when I asked why his father had hit him he answered, because he hates me.

We watched lightening in the distance, it put me in the mind of sutures. At night the coyotes howling made it hard for us to sleep. One of the cats died when the grass whip found her dozing in tall grass.

The white fence, against which we stood in homemade poncho's. The cows were named for my father's side of the family. He walked to my house to visit me, carrying with him a coffee can filled with worms.

Nobody but me appreciated the jade cocoons of the Monarchs. Nobody was allowed to tell Scott that another chicken had hatched. We ate glue as who in those days didn't.

I could have sworn I saw you running through the school yard towards me. Don't ever touch a resting racing pigeon. Rather than copy a flag, I invented one.

Detective stories were best because they offered some assurance that order was possible. Poor Richard Cory. Cinnamon jumbles were the best cookie, everybody said so.

A longing by which you would at last be defined. Jesus with his stick, scribbling in the dust at a whore's feet.