Raw Goods

the morning shift

anonymous stopped me on the down side of the morrison bridge and asked if i knew a place where she could stay for the night that wasn't involved with fog and concrete. for the last time, why didn't i tell her she could stay with me? she had a camoflague shirt torn at the neck and broad shoulders, thick where she swung her arms wide while we walked to the coffee shop and i called in to say i'd be late for the morning shift. bulky boots cluttered under gutter drifts as we sipped mushroom tea steam from the same thermos that i'd carried when we got arrested, not her and me, but me and someone else, and not the exact object, but the similar form for identical function, so how do we identify those we can trust, if not in the resemblance of head tilt and slow gaze before leaning in to kiss a cheek? this was two days before i brought home Dave and Crisis; one slept on the floor and one left soon after we ate boxed aborio rice. soon after, i quit my job and left portland on a four-day bus trip, but that's another story.

posted by judy j @ 3:54 PM