dear brother, dear mate,
green polyester pant-suit trimmed with baby-blue rhinestones Carpenters' record albums on the musty shag carpet at someone's wheelchair-bound uncle's house and eggs and eggs and messy butter and the swift and sorrowful ticking of a bank-giveaway alarm clock and brushing hair with your friend's older sister in a bedroom with a pastel bedspread and a long drive along Fullerton Ave. with spring in the air that collects at your sleeve's edge, when you hang your arm out the window, to point at the diner where you get burnt coffee and cheapo hash and nice pluckable eggs.
love,
lorine, an eggs-istentialist.
View Larger Map
No comments:
Post a Comment