A flaccid weed of sea. In a year there will be five. Those summer days of spin-doctors and copywriters. Green pebbly stuff stuck to sweaty, fattening legs.
Pop spends all day drinkin'.
No swimmin' hole. No Niagara Falls. No weeklong trips to oceanside. With lemonade And tire swings And bright blue sun over dappled country roads. I make for my children this silk purse of their childhood from the pig's ear of mine.