Large, heavy, round hood, curving fenders, the Kate Smith of American trucks circa 1938.
A small square table in a popular downtown eatery with my daughter this morning. I hate the word eatery. I thought you should know.
She appologetically helped herself to my bagel. I drank her Orangina when she got up to get more napkins.
My girl, black leggings, old blue sweatshirt pulled out of shape. Blue wool hat she wears everywhere. Her uncombed hair peaking out from underneath, hat pulled down over her forehead, hat resting on the tops of her glasses, her bemused grin, big teeth and braces...
My girl is teeth, long skinny legs, and a blue wool hat.
Gearing up for the winter, gearing up for Christmas, gearing up for what lies ahead, big mystery, big worry.
Over the day, a transparency, a filament of shadow. The girl and I walked and talked, laughed, I carried this fist in my throat.
Blue sky, red brick, blue hat, damn hat, rust and green truck, yellow peeling paint, green grass, smell of coffee, oranges, butter, yeast.
Things feel a little broken on the inside.