Thursday, September 22, 2011


Plugged into this evening, snug like hips touching at 10:06 p.m., the A train barreling away from work towards sleep and a squeaking bed, blanket worn and perfectly fine tucked beneath a duvet. No one will see it and if the cousins come to stay we’ll switch it for the wool your mother gave us (too warm in the spring and at all times green. We don’t mind the spots that break the diagonal lines; proof that that the dog was once young. We were young, when we bought it. We were tired; we’d spent the whole day looking to fill time, our stomachs full with broth and not much else. It was Christmas. All of the world was on the street shopping for one another and we could only think of ourselves).  

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