fork it

there is a smell
and i can't smell it, or i can. but i live here, so i have no way of knowing.
the 4k lbs flower on my shoulders looks lovely, and maintains the roads int eh winter so we all can arrive on time.
the knees of these roads are buckling under the salts of Gibraltar, and we stare at the beer signs in the corner and wonder why that smudge never comes clean.
i remember when i learned to spell recall, and was rewarded with a can of lysol and a scrub brush.
more rusty metal in those back yards than a Nash Rambler in 2013, hallways packed with 4k lbs flowers, packed with tape.
as we begin to learn the distinction between words that make similar sounds and shapes we are rewarded with cuts on our elbows, and our first taste of real plumbs form a tree.
some way we thought these things therapeutic, only to retrieve them pedantic, patronizing, and at least a little maze bound.  
we gave our hands over to the past that we write that day, with those droves of fire ants, surplus bags, gumshoes on the concrete, and a buss ticket to some place free of ore.
thanks for the reminder.
black coffee.