st. pascal’s old age home is elemental with its
hairdresser, board games, books, cafeteria, transport commune,
and toilet views of barns beside
a silver church steeple.
there are no skyscrapers,
no riding shotgun sky.
the backseat is just fine.
i`m flipping pages of a book
borrowed from the prayer room.
it’s called ”prehistoric treasures”
i get ooomphed by its cave paintings of bison and deer
by its captions saying
”souls of killed animals are
invited to reincarnate.”.
i wander the railroad tracks
and then make a horse shoe return
to where heat is a cramped circle of legs resting
and the talk is 3-alarm fires and
the vandalized cemetery.
a second round of spice pie is served.
