parachutes jane My face is always misty by the time I hear the seventh song because it reminds me of the bus ride up Malaysian dirt roads through fields of palm trees (instead of contrived corn fields like California’s) Ignoring my father, embarrassed that his mouth fell open while he slept; Looking out upon passing green and grey raindrops, not yet forming on the glass. I pressed my hand against it and tucked blond hair behind one ear and tongued the gap of a should-be canine tooth. And I thought about where I would rather be, a dirty apartment in Fresno, chainsmoking and tapping my fingernails on battered couch cushions with his head in my lap, and the smooth drum beat on the radio. 050206 what's it to you? who go blather from