If You Lived Here You’d Be Home By Now

I had gone out into the yard to watch them fall from the sky. I made no apologies for my curiosity.  Soon my neighbors joined me.  We stood together each in our own green universe watching as they fell out from the night and destroyed our homes. “Looks like trouble,” a man said to his wife. She pulled her bath-robe close around her neck and spat into the dirt. “I’ve seen it before,” she said “It don’t mean nothing.” Sometime after midnight the police arrived to investigate. They urged us all to go back inside, assuring us that if we ignored it, it would all go away.  No one listened. In the morning we sifted through the rumble, laying claim to bits and pieces of our former lives; our memories already fading. In the confusion I scavenged a banjo, some tube socks, and the wedding album of a Marge and Kevin Havlet.  I thought with this I could rebuild the neighborhood, and I knew the others felt the same. So we all set off in all directions, unburdened by memory.  One man whistling a tune. One man calling the rhythm.  Feet over dust, feet over dust.


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