I still remember my lessons.
I don’t have enough earthquake to break apart these fault lies,

If there must be a birth, let it be vaporous.

The hula dancer bobbles on the dash of a four-wheel-drive Ford truck.

It’s the chubby fourth grade boy

who hollered “fat four eyes”.

“You’re an exhibitionist,”

Working Saturday shifts, I was mostly there alone, writing up receipts for piles of dirty dress shirts and locking up at closing time.