May 22, 2005

She sits in the same rocker, drinking lemonade.
waiting for friday because she missed the train to mars.
the constellations mock her, the reservation book was filled up two weeks ago and their backed up until pluto.

patio foot steps, father daughter dance, minus that one figure in the dark. a lonely prospect when there are no shoes for you to stand upon. gravelly distaste for a future bound to come while you’re tied to that chair, bound and gagged because like it or not you WILL eat those peas.

nail-nibbling habits, a taste of face wash and acetone. bile stings like the tiny mesquitos after the fire has dulled itself to embers and those stars above have lulled into a drunken stance of winking at eachother. don’t worry, they told her, it was nothing suggestive.

she plans things, simple slow solutions, slipping through slices of silicon thoughts, though there was nothing to deter the nattering notes that were left upon the table. dining room radicals, table top trips and garden hose discos, memories and masquerades because we never remember the same thing.

She sits in the same rocker with the empty lemonade glass.

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