Week-old dishes stacked in the sink.
Bacon grease, egg shells, moldy turnip peels.
A derelict pitbull
licks his
balls.
I can see the twin runways
of the Minneapolis-Saint Paul airport out the snow-frosted kitchen window.
Each new touchdown rattles
the sheetrock.
Jeff and I ride north, past
state Highway 55
in the back of a stranger’s Impala
dense with sinsemill…
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