Tuesday, August 9, 2016


I get on the wrong bus. I don't know what I'm thinking. I'm seven years old and eating a Heath ice cream bar in my grandmother's den. Reagan was shot. It's on the news. The television tells the story. I'm sixteen years old. I'm reading Linda Goodman's Love Signs. Leo man. Aries man. Libra man. Great ideas for an Aquarius girl interested in becoming a woman. I'm twenty-three years old. I'm reading Dr. Seuss books to my daughter as she sucks her thumb in my uterus. I'm forty years old. I'm lighting Easter candles in my room at The Holly Inn. The plumber doesn't comprehend my tears. I get on the wrong bus and end up downtown with the drug addicts and whores and tourists. A smelly white man in a Bob Marley t-shirt says, "Hey, mama. God loves you. Got some change?" I hand him a five dollar bill and tell him,"I know he does but I wish he'd be more covert about that shit."

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