Dirt day

There’s a broken pipe in the ceiling at work. I hope it’s not toilet water from upstairs. Every ten minutes or so brown earth comes crashing onto the linoleum – a collection of years, fossils, rat shit and plaster. I’m curious how it got there in the first place, how long it’s been there caking, hardening, breathing? Howard’s wrench looks like terminator’s arm. He’s covered in navy – dickies, belt, hanes. Bricks are falling now, red chunks between ladder legs. The green and yellow metal intertwine like structured citrus trees.
Last night I had a dream I was back in school. Banished to an old dusty dorm, without friends, alone. A beautiful colored bird was peeling from my wrist. I gathered my school supplies: a large knotty pine walking stick, books, a paper with living arrangements and mazed my way through dark hallways until I reached a dirty room, ill-lit, without windows. Feeling more than alone, I saw a cloaked man in the corner. His earthy face was hairless, but familiar. And suddenly I recognized him as someone I knew once, someone I thought was dead. He had been waiting there in that room for years until I arrived.

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