Slouched in a plastic chair at the multi-purpose space, watching the bricks deteriorate over the decades. Looks fine until the building collapses. Someone call the fire marshall, maybe a child dressed as a fireman, wearing one of those plastic fireman’s hats. Maybe call your mutt over. It could wear the hat. Or call the donkey. We could use mister hee-haw at this hoedown. Better yet, call the tuckpointer. In the meantime, I’m going to continue slouching until my spine slips out, ignoring the heat and that big room full of blown balloons, next room over.
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