...Ten more miles on his four day run/ A few more songs on the all night radio....
Pour myself into black pants, hoping for no overflow, thankful again for the miracle of stretch denim. Wind bites through taut skin of fabric as though it weren't there, and I wonder why I bothered.
A dump truck carries dead vegetation, sports an arched net cover. Inside, dry leaves whirl around like angry finches.
I'm waiting for my Christmas gift. He won't even give me a hint, like if it's something slinky to handwash, something spikey to name Audrey, or something satiny to smooth the savage mane. No hints, and he enjoys my face of fury. My molars disappear into mounds of powder with all this gnashing.
"Who are those from?"
What? I've been buying flowers for the house pretty regularly.
"Yeah, but not roses."
I see. I can buy flowers for myself anytime I like, any sort that appeals to me....except ROSES.
(Kathy Matea, Eighteen Wheels And A Dozen Roses)