Graphic by Katie Forcier
Tasha
I was not afraid to get my hands dirty,
to eat paste or to use a knife as a brush.
I would do anything.
My eyes cast a focused beam
on the road to the west.
I took one,
purely portable, very personal
humidifier and a stack of twenties.
Days later, in the bowels
of a glaring red and white diner,
a waitress with a voice that had no bottom
served me a slice of apple pie
and whispered.
I shrugged and stuck my gum
behind the dirty curtain
on the chipped window pane.
A spoon glittered
like a fake smile
beneath the next booth.
