Leaving Florida I
Before the day breathes hot she dresses in what she set out
the night before, when everything else was packed: last pair of underpants,
sports bra, three-quarter-length pants, yellow T-shirt of memories, mismatched
socks, tired, tired shoes, fanny pack for phone and keys with running timer
attached. Feet on the street of the flat wide retirement village, passing the
golf carts, finding the tucked-away dirt-packed track, no map, no knowledge,
turns wherever she feels it and invisible string that unspools to the end of
exactly half her time and then pulls her back home, to her temporary guesthouse
home, all along the backwards pattern of her path.
water needles pound
she stands still, soap drips away
feet step to dry mat
Leaving Florida II
Hours later, her body packed into a three-person row in the second
plane of the day, the grizzled seat neighbor says "Home to Indiana for the
first time in ten years. Mom had a bad accident yesterday. In Seattle I get
high-CBD medical cannabis, no THC, for my PTSD. Don't come back here much, too
many rules. Three DUIs and as soon as I'm home they come knocking on Mom and
Dad's door, We know Jimmy's here." Cranberry juice for her, a Coke for
him. He curls back asleep against the off-white canvas window shade. Later in
the terminal, stubbly, he will wish her a good rest of her day.
"Got any more trash?"
seat-back pocket is bulging
plane bounces real hard
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