Thursday, April 23, 2015


1977. The galvanized skirting. Needing a haircut. Windows plastic-sealed; one open. Bib overalls. Mid-Michigan sand-yard, burrs and ant lions. A galloping form-molded plastic horse, wind-ridden, the gaping, ragged hole in its side (BB gun blasted?) blocked from view. And that sweet puppy whose name I don't remember, a short-lived friend too tightly squeezed, only ever half-recalled in faded family lore as having been poisoned off by neighbors who rented the next trailer over. An almost of rural childhood. #tbt

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