It was a kid-glove orange, a

leaf, or a Dancy tangerine

falling from the tree. I didn't



see it. I was watching a dance

of anger on TV while learning

to swing in a way that left me



needing my forlorn hope. The

change did not occur. Outside,

a drunk driver wearing zipper-skin



orange driving gloves swerved

sharply and hit my old, gnarled

tree during imbuing my hearing



with ****** innuendo. He could

not escape his awkward accident.

Much later, I heard that he had



suffered from Saint Vitus's dance.

In time, no one was able to heal

the wounds of my soul. I wanted

this Duvet day to end quickly.