Talking to us to quell those fears that swarm in shadow of whole big picture, some just picked one little thing...focus...
But it's all gone
All overseas
Whole farms, just gone
I don't know where to start....
"What's something still American-made that you like?"
The sunlight stroked her legs. Crazed wild eyes of guys not really old yet but had been old men as children slow to tackle the day. "What kind of day is it?" One asked while eyes soaked up the sight of her legs into a mental memory chest. A kind of toughness born of loss but not death and not good options for getting out of this.
Arm hairs, grimes of doing shit, tattoos, and boots. Nobody's ever really got money, even rich people.
Don't need no money looking that good. A sweatshirt covering up legs then. No middle finger to air necessary. "Got your plan?"
Out past Breakfast Club.
Tendrils and corals, round about spirals--invisible in clear waters, hanging around adrift because America had re-fortified. Not so you could stare at it like a Lincoln Log fort. We'd done that thing. Scattered jigsaw puzzle pieces tossed into the box of hardcore mainstream. A mainstream huffing and puffing up the waves, then sinking low in the gravity of YOUR TROPES DON'T WORK, weight of an unruly determination sucking to level of water and the mounds of water sucking back. Roaring past walls of astonishing, frightful build up by the others. Our vessel cutting path.
Some parents putting their everything into an RV approached visibly carefully. "It's all right. Nobody's doing nothing."
"We're feeling it girl. Getting on time."
"She's ready," the father said of his wife and the camper. "Still want a lift as far as Philly?"
Storms behind cool eyes. She threw the sweatshirt into the mom's basket bag. A stretch of stiff hiking legs. "Let's do this."
"Catch ya on the flipside," she double pistoled our thinning group.
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