The baby wanted meatballs but there were no meatballs so the mother fed him mini ravioli. Jesus fucking CHRIST. 30% sodium. There has to be a better way.
In the pool there were things floating around. Dead things. Black specks. One green leaf, small and irridescent in the bleaching sun. That was okay. The mother splashed water at the bee. She knew the bee would not let it go. The bee would have its revenge. The bee flew toward the mother’s face. The mother held her nose with her fingers and dipped down into the water. The chlorine stung her eyes. The boy, not really a baby, stayed on the steps wearing his red plastic mask. He was afraid of the water.
There are still pockets of surprise in America, tiny sanctuaries untouched by free enterprise. There are waterfalls. There are mesas. There is cool verdure. You can still buy record albums and Mexican comic books. Then there are the billboards advertising Jesus and the seven pound burrito. There is escape, sure, but you have to work like a motherfucker to find it.