Hundred year old masonry sand from the house on grove that spills from my boots onto the linoleum floor of our kitchen. Baby May will crawl through my sand.
Three weeks of cigarette butts that will wash out of the flooded bed of my truck as I pull onto stuart avenue. It hasn't rained in three weeks.
I get the quarter into my mouth just before the light goes green and I bank the Honda onto the road to the nickel bridge. There are oil spills to be avoided at the toll booth as well.
There are no such thing as zombies. There's just me and Jay, our families, our lives.
3 comments:
dear god our lives
This is good.
oh right-creepy old house pictures by John Murden. sorry.
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