I think I hate being ill more than I hate essay writing.
Or cheese. Or when there’s hair in the plug and I have to
touch it to get it out, and its gross but also my fault.
Sometimes I want to walk for a long long time
and before eve, I would. Collecting from the side
of the road in a backpack that slides from my shoulder.
Not quite paying attention to the fact that once I got somewhere,
I had to walk back.
And sometimes my dad would pick me up,
or a friend would take me home after a day of
throwing rocks in rivers. Swinging on swings made for smaller things.
But a lot of the time my legs would carry me home again,
as the sun set in front or behind of me, and the traffic dies down,
geese in the sky like flying arrows directing you
to somewhere new. It’ll have to wait, golden one.
I used to collect pebbles. The most ordinary pebbles
I could find but for their texture in my pocket, their
shared ability to fuck up the washing machine
because I never remember they’re there.
Once I trained our chicken to come find me in the mornings,
she slept in the tree’s, her beak was sharp with greediness
but I liked to imagine her pleased to see me.
A fox ate her in the night,
and I kept its tail as recompense.

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