What's the big rush like you've got a date or something?
There's no one here to give you the right time of day,
and in case you're wondering,
I'm the voice of the graveyard,
alive, but not in your 1-2-3. Capice?
So much for introductions.
So much for this and that.
Let's get real and nail the coffin.
You're Maggie of the misfit foot.
Here's what to do:
Under the lidless eyeball of the sun,
keep riding until you find Section P.
When you hear a kid
playing music from a garbage pile,
take his hand and he'll help you find your Granny.
That was it? Really?
To trust a voice echoing through leaves?
Somewhere a railroad car screeched to a halt.
Or maybe it was a dog barking.
Soft smell of cypress.
Maggie rolled the skateboard beneath her head.
A handbook of dreams wheeled her away:
Snowberries attract birds and require little water.
At an airport security check:
Everyone must remove all belts and empty pockets.
A host asked during a game show:
What do most people want to see when they die?
There is a light above her head.
She never asked to be here,
alone as the tongue in her mouth.