Just when I think I am a giraffe stuck in the body of a girl, a body that is wearing wrinkle cream and other signs of womanhood slipped off a paper and wire hanger and tried on for size, like a hot flash on a Friday, you take my hand. We are walking. Bus stop to brick building door. Communicating without sound. You are right here, you tell me with your lonely palm pressed to my sweating hoof. It’s sadness. That’s all.
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