picnic

Red russian, german, hebrew on the canvas bag that hangs on the stained glass door. The woman from Georgia said that you have to weld the metals to the frame with a soldering iron. Her art had too many triangles for my liking, but her hands looked like an asiatic map, painted with a sumi and suzuri.
I picked up a free cardboard box full of 1993 copy written medical encyclopedias today. A craftsman from the lawn service commented on how heavy they were when I requested that he carry it inside to the library.

He had already exclaimed about the a-shirt I wore; McCain Lawn Care, which had been given to me by the man that does the gardening and tedious landscaping, 29 year old Brian. I went into the back of his pick-up truck and asked for it while James showed his collaborative studio in the barn. It has appealing dirt and grass stains, and wide holes where sleeves once were. "Yeah sure, it's not mine. I used to work for them, before I started working here." Brian was raised by his step-mother after his biological father left them before he reached puberty. Three of his siblings were born in the month of May, accompanying his birth day, the 22nd. He told me that he remembers me sleeping beside the pool last summer, then showed me the brimful insects that are feasting on the dead birch tree.

  "Hey mom, is this the daughter? The one that lives in New York?" he asked when delivering the invoice. "In college? What are you gonna do after?"
  "English professor,"
  "Whoa-hoh ... that's good."
  "That's why I read so much. Er, I'll teach English because I read so much."
  "You're tellin' me!"
  "Have you met my mum's dog? The small one that bites ankles?"
  "I've seen him, yeah. The black one?"
  "He's dead. He died a couple days ago. That's what my mother just attempted telling you,"
  "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. My dog died a few weeks ago. He was hit by a train and had his head cut off."