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