Sunday, November 22, 2009

River Pierre.

She is dressed in an Afghan and black clothing.
I told her I was over the whole black outfit thing,
she could wear anything she wanted. She came from South Africa.
She spoke in broken English.
I told her the wind is like a language...that it is a language.
It speaks to tree branches and rocks.
She told me I was different. I didn't know where I belonged.
I took an essay writing class when I was six.
We ate lunch on the River Pierre, in France,
and looked over her notes on Gibraltar.
They told me I do everything wrong. I'm not the way I should be.
Everyone makes me feel uncomfortable. No one understands.
The lake is filled with fish. Every day, I take bread crumbs out to
the lake, and only see three things-a toad, a lily pad, and
a tortoise. The tortoise has a brown-speckled shell. He looks
at me and wanders away. Everyone says I am selfish. I agree
with them. I haven't had a job in seven years.
The word, Gibraltar rings in my ears. It is an interesting word,
and I wonder what it means. Gibraltar.
We're not in France anymore. We're back at home, leafing through cake
magazines and talking about the football game on tv.
It's almost Thanksgiving.

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