Red door, white X. It’s gonna be a real barnburner. Witness. Stable. Horses. Farm. Sound of whinnying and baa’ing and moo’ing. Hay gets stored in stacks. Heavy-lifting sure to form out a bicep curl. Painting plastic unproliferated. Toys. Being a kid, noticing everything and nothing. Simple logic. The time to talk, the time to plant seeds and till. Springtime, summer dusky harvest. Late night, early fall. Skipping around town with ice cream telling on you. Telling all your friends. Overalls, jumpsuit, straightjacket, white-washed history and picket fence. Picket signs in protest, a divided electorate. Diving into pools of trauma, some of which is not my own. Journeys not to be taken light. Skip the basket, Eleanor at stake. Beefsteak tomatoes so firm they could burst. I want you in the nighttime, not even the crickets will know where we’ve gathered or what’s been said or where your hands lead mine. Straight on ’til morning. Stacy in the dumbwaiter, waiting for a good moment to shout, “Surprise!”. Cynical pigtails, bullet on egg fry. Kiss me tomorrow. Nightmares await. Crinkle cut french fries, lullaby for baby. Kiss me on my forehead. Call me tomorrow, maybe.