My drunken whiskey-gin feet are trying to dig toe-knuckles into the wooden bed frame in my room. In my parents house I lay under Cranfield skies of bullfrog croaks. A heron cries.. Dad is gone, Mom asleep, sister aware but silent. This bed frame was Papas. He slept in if for over five decades in Franklin, Tennessee. So why won't my toes curl into the warm wood? They're sweating so why won't they dissolve into this oaken frame? Tomorrow I teach, give a groomsman's speech under the brazen idol of Birmingham, and miss menthol. 2 water bottles and five handfuls if goldfish, I pray and try to sleep.
Tetalasti.