It was all in good fun.

  A man used a woman's canvas log bag, carried like a sac o' flour, and never let go of the Colonials' muskets.  While us shirts did housechores to churn the butter.  Another day of learning our history was about to end eras within decades.  We were leaving travel out of it, us slaves in our underwear to the real artistes who'd called for some nudist models.  The various buses on the regional schedule seemed to be running on time. 

  An exceptionally modest man in a certain body type categgory won the necklace toss for our last real sweater--a long coat foxy color. 

  Coming on dusk in those kind of cul de sacs meant a chorus of people activity including crickets and buzz sawz and people learning English by chanting songs.  Woodsmoke smells, clogs and slippers for returning workers.  "Borrowed" tools from the surrounding spaces between major roads were begrudingly left outside the stock fencing.  Well, one of the pieces left. 

  One little boy put on the crossing guard uniform.  He'd been sportscross-training in the running disciplines since Long Hair Lisa found out the categories of prisons where the different teachers were being sent to teach.  The director types had had long resumes so it was taking long time periods to do safe transports "upstate".  A father who was a prison guard but who'd been coughing up black plastic bag ashes warming himself near a cockemamey place to put a woocough, cough, hacking air mucous fight, incinerator had also been prohibited from working.

  Another identified a skeleton mummy by picking his chicken (a mom with a colored bandana head bandage), I gots foods for scruffies, he lowered his head in shame.