walking and writing can be dangerous

No matter how old I get, the word POOP still makes me giggle. I had a friend once and we could call each other poop as a pet name. Hey, Poop. Poop-a-doop. Maybe I’ll try it out on my new friends, only the ones I’m close with, see if it sticks. heh.

I think God loves all his poets and writers, so I can say “Lent Poop” and he won’t mind.

This always sounds better in my mind when I’m walking to work, when I make poems in my mind when I’m walking and you rewind the lines over and over so you can remember them, remember your train of thought. It’s very unlike a train. It’s more like a rubber band ball overlapping and bouncing and thudding on the ground when it gets too heavy.

There was still a steel rod in my chest. It’s not really there anymore, but it was there. I felt like knocking on it to see if it would open, but there was nothing there. My outfit started falling apart. Literally falling off of me. My purse off my shoulder, my belt off my waist. There’s never a rung in the middle when you need it. One more notch and it’s too tight. One the other way and it’s too loose. There’s never one in the middle.

Of course you pull up in your beemer as I’m walking in the rain. Of course you have one of the first 3 spots outside the building, but I’m not entirely sure why. Of course I pass you and you’re running after me to catch the door. Of course I hold it open for you because I’m a nice person. I feel much gratification that you friended me on Facebook and it wasn’t the other way around. 1 Point for Rachel.

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