Hanging to Dry

Baby's a year old now and I want to cry.

Too many necks stuck out against the sides of books and too much sunshine in a city without brakes..

'I'm so lonesome I could cry.'

Silhouettes in pictures, grainy with time, aged like patchwork quilts.

'There are places I'll remember all my life.'

The timing of those weekends built bricks into our hearts.

Somewhere out there is a dream and somewhere out there is a fear of bad dreams coming true, worry-me-bads coming awfully true.

Uncle Danny's slowly grinding coffee and Grandma's smelling it and making phone calls.

Believe me, Pablo, when I say that the assistant sometimes has it better off and, that said, I'm glad to help you along and to help find faith in 'A project is just that, son, and someday needs be done.'

Sundays are slow steps and eggs and a concentration on lifting from one to the next, slow steps, and longer minutes.

Baby's a year old now and I want the best.

An assistant to the pull of love can be the proximity of it or the ties of distance also.

No country for young children.

Just as much as No Country For Old Men.

Just suit them all up in boots and maybe they'll meet somewhere between Laredo and Los Angeles.

Together they can taste the sameness of weeks of bread eaten without much else on breaks not much easier than...

Carried on during the grey times, discovering aspects of what needs be done and bleeding codes of ethics.