Backyard summer

Her legs wrench an extra pillow as my sweaty skull soaks through a cushy counterpart wall-side. 

Loose threads climb in her sleeping ears and whisper rumors of rogue magnetic hairs, spiderwebs, carpet enemies.  

I dream of sanitary plastic gloves on dinner plates. By morning, her shaved head will warm in the sun and calm the subsurface menace. 

We sit in slow motion on newly clean outdoor chairs. My eyelids are clunky garage doors hoisted by an unseen electric pulley. Damn dog. Fucking shit-eating dog.

The boys want lunch, but don’t mind making it themselves. We can pretend a vacay in Hospital City; summer is not lost. 

A breeze cooler than June pushes branches near the fence, then thinks less of purpose. This is a workday for so many. 

We’re skin spots and brain fog. The light shines down. What will the specialist say? Money drips in a quiet coffee stream from a backend reservoir. 

Our white sun pushes salt out successfully through ancient channels. The cut grass sits Berber-style and calls Molly to roll and scratch her back by the root’s edge. Still green now.  

I fade in a quiet moment — accidentally forgetting it all. 

Oh yeah, remember the new world. The unfinished, updated living experience. 

I’ll try fish in coconut oil. We’ve got to get the good bacteria up. 

Andrew’s birthday comes July. Let’s get inside to vacuum before we make calls. 

Maybe in a minute. 

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