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<p class="MsoNormal">She couldn’t make it esthetically possible since she didn’t know that that was the question. She sits beside the front door, glass shards from the stucco rubbing the grooves of her corduroy overalls. Old Ford pulls up outside, his Friday night come down saunter up the stairs, package of noodles and a six-pack in a plastic bag swishing and tinkering. What is to be abstracted anyways? </p><p class="MsoNormal">His paycheque? Her day-care fees? </p><p class="MsoNormal">The price of her first cavity? He wishes he could leave her with the neighbor, but what would happen to her English? Next to the neighbors, but not of them. We aren’t foreigners; she’s a second-generation for crissakes. </p><p class="MsoNormal"> There’s just a lot of natives with more dough. If we moved any further east, we’d be in China. If we can’t abstract the pieces of ourselves out of this, </p><p class="MsoNormal">then let’s just get rid of the pieces altogether.<o:p></o:p></p>
Author:
Bio:
What is the sum of 11 and 11:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.