take 1, my wallet, my c class boarding pass, my responsibility, my town, by baggage claim a mother looks at her sons tattoos saying, sweetie, no, it hasn't healed yet, feel how high it is looking forward to, looking for what you think are your worst nightmare situations. of course its in the little things, the presence of gum or not, clouds or not. the flight attendants being good at their dance. watching the mother look at her son's tattoos in the airport I feel like i'm going to have a son too, a tall tattooed son, not much of a premonition these days. wallet, boarding pass. check check. take 2 a seat at the brasserie. I feel like i gave up having babies

for lent and lent has lasted 23 years. i'm looking over my shoulder, because there's a mirror behind me.

I touch the outside of my beer to help me turn the page, my book, its embarrassing library wrapper, seated next to some worldly travel girls with red wine and local newspapers, concert section, talk about eurorail and erasmus. We are all three ladies with time. hand me a check thank you thank you, pretending to sober up after pretending to be drunk. take 3 now its nighttime the birds, sparrows and robins, are quiet and statues of angels, danish children, swans, soldiers, guitars, hats, lions stay still while I walk past them, trying to keep my head steady like a movie shot. I thought the birds were quiet until I listened to the video of the angel statue in the front yard. how could I not hear them?