Friday, November 20, 2009

What They Talk About.

I am not talking about tomorrow. I am not talking about the eggs being boiled
on the stove. I am not talking about the way the banana bread is being baked in
the oven, or the white-haired lion on the evening news, spouting songs about God, Israel, Iran. The country is in turmoil. When has it stopped being in turmoil? My president seeks resolution, holds up his hand in silence, holds up his hand and places it on a book, The Art of War, of resolution. I keep myself to myself. The news blares on. You told me you wouldn't leave for Jefferson City, that you wouldn't leave me behind, that my sister didn't lose her leg in the bar fight and couldn't find the leg and had to get it replaced. I am not talking about tomorrow. I am not talking about your mother, who owes me money she said she'll never have. The house has been put up for sale. Anger is written all over my face, it's really not, it's really not, I just don't like drinking, don't like dancing, don't like much anything about anything. My classmates usually provoked it. They're not here. You are. You talk to me. I hear you.

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