I concentrate on present rust. Now, back to Maggie's clothes, farming fingers playing in omnipresent mud. She dallied while we worked and upgraded sedans from barely used to brand new, then bigger, then smaller, never content. In cloud nets around a lunar slit, we made dollar signs in greasy gray and hoped it wouldn't rain on our luck. Passed years like gas and wondered what we ate to make our yards look so colorless, so dry.
Water is part of the bucket now.
When stairs climb us, our backs are bent. This plain woman down the street. Neighbors had strokes in strings spinning like lost rosaries, and she was spritzing their arid ways, sailing cookie tin tops to their patio doors, leaving margarine tubs of Jello consistent with all saggy breasts. Cleaning their toilets on Saturday faster than those old toys flushed, folding towels like envelopes for letters we never bothered to send. Her corn husk arms were growing thin, no thinner than our Gucci shoes.