That's good.

I like my trousers now. Caked with what, red clay splotched from tromping the lake? Wasp bodies pittering the broken dock? Or knots that guy made to illustrate the point. Georgia is for the order of things. Them sweet green seeing hills. Banisters, brick houses, houses with gates, frazzled animals on laser leashes. I'll see the lads come December. For a little while? Lay me ear to a queer pillow. 'Twas sleep that came before, hard on Julia's asthmatic mouth, on mom's lonely own body in the king bed. Which just sits there. Dad and me upstairs where the clicking is, our machines, the pieces of blue light slide off the windows. But that's when you look up at us. Since then it's breakfast eggs with peppers, sausage, bacon, cheese, onions, salt all over. Made him mad that I was full when he finished. I was the cutter, you see. We sit for nothing, hours, sounding out atmospheric conditions, simple geometry or why I don't do funny poems too. Just because wondering. And mom on a streak to be small again, maybe a house in this little town where she can carry the groceries home. And Julia sends the perfect pictures houses chocolates bottles of wine down. I prayed to God on my doubt and lots of things, and now he needs space. He cried. That's good.