kitchen corner of a basement bachelor suite, there's a certain search for certainty,
you know we'll never see her
S touch her childhood home in photos that she took. it's one more omission from a
highschool history book; how whole lives are knifed and pushed aside. to whom it may
concern...this is to inform...yours, sincerly yours... there's a bus that's leaving
half an hour from now. it won't take her where she really wants to go. so she sits
there with her luggage at her side. in the empty stations of our empty lives. take a
broken bottle, take a rafter beam, or take a needle and a tarnished spoon. all just
words to kill off one more unheard statement in another dying afternoon; she says
she's leaving soon. so so long to ten hour shifts and faking sympathies. farewell to
piles of bills, unpaid utilities. all rolled up and unfurled like a flag. wake up and
pack your bag... "it's like being sick all the time, i think, coming
Home from work, sick in that low-grade continuous way that makes you forget what
it's like to be well. we have never in our lives known what it is to be well. what
if i were coming home, i think, from doing work that i loved and that was for us
all, what if i looked at the houses and the air and the streets, knowing they were
in accord, not set against us, what if we knew the powers of this country moved to
provide for us and for all people, how would that be, how would we feel and think
and what would we create?"




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