It’s a wet fall, not quite rainy, but humid and with high waters. The river laps against last year’s campgrounds, a trellis of cottonwood roots from where the river took the silt back. Somebody panhandled a few dollars off the expressway exit, so we all have hot dogs. Put them on the stick lengthwise, not like in the movies. The movies lie about everything. This isn’t camping— but I’ve got a camping bag, green and mossy from where it can’t even mildew anymore. I should get a new one. I should hang out in town and make some friends, start bucking in the city, find a squat.

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2 Responses to Fall

  1. Pingback: Jars « Tailey Po'

  2. Pingback: This used to be my home « Tailey Po'

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