The sap from the trees—everywhere this morning—the midnight storm did a number—Governor is calling for a state of emergency.
“…What about the vagrants? (Why in God’s good name, are those panhandlers positioning themselves at the forefront of my mind, infiltrating my most personal of personal thoughts)”
“got no idea’r dare, couldn’t care less neither, surprise you be askin’”
“Yeah, me too”
Scattered everywhere—punctured tires from branches—prematurely broken from their mother’s veins.
“This debris’ all o’er the place, we ain’t doin’ shit today, lets see if we can’t make it to Downunder for a cupla cole ones—God, sure hope’s still dare—hope damage din’t make It that nort”
(in a daze, mesmerized by how a simple storm can alter both the familiar and one's ability to perceive abstractly), “yeah…
...sure hope not”