Happiness is hairpin, it’s hangdog.
I love the picture of us in front of the
cornfield, shortly before our first
Halloween. Two smiles on a hay-
bale in front of a row of pumpkins.
Two pumpkins in love learn to wish
on nothing. Fly in circles over a
swollen stone. October must have
graduated by the fistful. And I
don’t remember the sky, but
growing up and out. And
never another day. But
here it is November,
here we are spreading
Family Guy to the masses
(productively). Miracle of
miracles, already Wednesday
and at the fish taco place on
Piedmont waiting for Aaron
to read at Steph’s. It feels
nice to be sloppy and isolated.
It feels okay to be sleepy and
interrupted yet again, to look up
and we’re smiling, a braceleted
arm slung over my right shoulder,
a lady in pink with two children:
a boy in blue, hands clasped in
front of his navel staring right at
the camera, and a girl in white,
butt in the dirt, with arms out-
stretched in impossible attempt
to encircle an obese pumpkin.
