Mornings I place them by the open window close to air and light freshly watered freshly changed. I unfold the sheets and eyes follow
I’m in the motel outside of town, slouched in the faded green armchair, thumbing the Gideon Bible, and, the TV muted, ignoring the weather
She flashed across his universe, all swing skirt and sandals and red hair and convertible— where she slung her purse into the back seat
After an hour of brainstorming her job skills she complied: 1) smiling through anything, even cramping facial muscles or fingers sizzling against the side