Tossed Diet Pepsi, Grape Shasta & Orange Crush crushed just enough to trap a baby frog that will escape in the redemption bin. Each sticky can and random Royal Crown bottle collected with a mental count (5 10 15) adding to a mason jar sum bulging a jean tumor against a narrow hip crest. Two miles, going “downtown” ( a whole half triangle- the local hardware; family bank; the barber, complete with patriotic painted poles; and local watering hole, its torn screen door half cocked revealing dark paneling that sweated stale smoke and cheep beer.) All legs and sugared energy, a maroon ten speed couldn’t beat the afternoon blazing between sapling leaves. Everyday awaited a mystery with the first metal down stoke. No money beyond the collected cans to feed her hunger. People hoped they toss in fries with the extra pickle no onion tenderloin. The old gal’s thick flesh dangling blue tattoos, her stare down and then, honey, you sleep okay? Nobby knees and hollowed out blues, a poster child for Catholic charities. A buck tooth smile hid any worry. They always fed her fine, she thought, it was the night terrors that needed starving.
Posted by angela on 2012/06/16