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All My Last Things

Poetry & Prose | April 24, 2017

My day begins with long hairs in the bathroom shower stalls, but the toilets are never clogged, so I can’t complain. I mash mint-flavor in my mouth and scrub the dreams and fur from my teeth. Then I’m getting dressed and drinking coffee at the same time. One arm reaches into my closet as the other swirls a spoon in a mug. Half and Half pours onto my notes in class. We are talking about horror, the sublime, and Spike Lee. I’m looking at people’s shoes and how they walk. With their knees turned in. Or their feet turned out. I copy Sudoku puzzles into my notebook and solve them. I meet some friends for lunch. We talk about math, scary cartoons, and Spike Lee. They’re going to build something great. A few leave, and the rest of us discuss getting jobs, wars, and panic attacks. I leave to get a pastry and more coffee to dip it in. I walk into the library, then CVS, then my first-grade classroom, looking at all the chalk dust on the edge of the blackboard. I’m learning how to drive stick shift, and I keep getting stuck on the hills. I’m thinking about that little silver car. I named it “General A-Rod” after the last horse in the Kentucky Derby. I had to leave it at home to come to school. I saluted it for good luck. My professor pronounces “France” like “Frawhnce.” The PowerPoint flashes images of film history. There is France. There is a movie poster put up during World War II. There is my old piano teacher. She had brown scuffed up shoes, and I never came back after that summer. There is information. I copy it down, knowing that if I made more mistakes, I’d have better stories. Class gets out. I call home. I see things for sale wherever I go. I meet the friends for dinner that I didn’t see at lunch. They’re telling me about their bad teachers from high school, but all I can think about is what they looked like when they were little, and what shoes they wore until they learned about the shoes they should want to have. You shouldn’t let yourself go without a shower for more than a few days. I’m trying to undress, but I’ve still got one arm reaching into the closet from this morning. Half and Half spills out of the shower head. It clogs the toilets and floods the bathroom, and I’m carried to bed in a boat of general and vague intentions. I saw such a funny video today. I saw the coolest pair of shoes today. I heard the most beautiful song. It all mixes together in my coffee cup, and I dream. I dream that I’m trying to eat peaches off of trees, but I don’t understand the peaches or the trees. And I don’t understand the taste or the branches, only that they’re leaving.