Deadpan epiphanies from the rain on my tongue reminds me of spurts from the water fountain at the empty field my older step brother played football on— naked of grass strands and abundant in dirty earth pure enough to give you ringworm if you wore shoes thin enough— before being shut off because the city wouldn't replace the lead pipes. A deep green, the metal fountain resembled the skin of a lime after being peeled and discarded, the scum below a dumpster that doesn't divorce itself from the mold and cluster of humid elements, and the grass just before the suckerpunch of Autumn. Dead and purposeless, the fountain felt cold, more so than concrete slabs in graveyards during winter, and yet for me it became a podium stronger than an oval office bully pulpit for every memory that malforms into why didn't Is and what ifs. Anything to delay an inevitability that expired decades ago. Even a million light-years away and decades further.
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So good:
“naked of grass strands
and abundant
in dirty earth
pure enough to give
you ringworm
if you wore shoes
thin enough—“