Our
Florida Driveway
You never
blew
snow out of our
Florida driveway. Never
demonstrated a birthday
unless reminded.
This
did not just become, was
evidently always,
purposeful. Dusting
women's work, as
babies, scrubbing toilets,
malingering in strip malls
buying Hallmark drippage.
That silver
car was cleaner
than your shirts, rolled to
sleeve, ironed into early
deaths. You were strong
in them,
their stricture
pleased you. You never
kissed our gay black mannequin,
his headless fiberglass covered
over in bright
scarves, Chinese
stork umbrellas. Add-on balloon
head. His name became Richard, although
he was dickless. But you were out. You
were partying.
You never blew
snow out of our Florida driveway.
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