Like that’s happening, says Jer.

And thrusts into our arms clothes bundles anew.

Today I am: white sweater blue pants floppy tan hat.

Seen through bouncing walking heads of our cohort: playground Like its HandiPic Except not Another wrong HandiPic! This playground has no children chasing butterfly! Only Police Standing unhappy One sitting in swing His Police friend gives him a stickpoke Which hops him to his feet While his swing just swings He who hopped looks at me direct I try a wink.

No go.

That Police must not feel like winking.

Beyond Police: big crowd of BastardTurdCreepIdiots.

We bellow What loudness for good we make! Then something occurs One BastardTurdCreepIdiot suddenly is over here On our side Among us! Bellowing! At us! So close I can see his sore on lip The quietest Greg gives him a slap He slaps quiet Greg right back Our largest Vince moves a fist to face of BastardTurdCreepIdiot BastardTurdCreepIdiot goes down No longer bellowing Just covering face Ducking down meek Several Williams, a slim Conor, three Vinces gather rough around him Their feet and legs start going.

Say that must that must really

I withdraw Breathing hard Here is a small bathroom house That really smells like it I sit inside against one of its wall Heart leaping in bad manner Is brief rest fine during Job?

Hope so.

Here comes Jer.

What the hell are you doing in here, 89? he says. Jesus, come on.

Greg, I say.

Greg, right, sure, whoever, says Jer.

Dragged, by Jer, past water fountain Which runs on and Though no one drinking from Past three baby trees, wired to ground Pushed by dear Jer back over with my Hoo boy.

My Conors Gregs Vinces my

Good old Jer.

Kudos, Jer.

No Root Beer for me thanks on way home.

Because of crying.

I know crying I just have never done it.

I cry and cry.

Jer, softly, close to me: What are you doing, 89, why are you crying?

Me: I don’t know, sorry, sorry.

Jer: Stop. You need to stop. Do you see anyone else on this bus crying?

No, I say.

Kicking Conor and the kicking Williams and kicking-punching Vinces are just happily drinking Root Beer.

Take this, Jer says.

Gives me a small white bit of

Jer you always have my back Jer Thank you Jer You do not want my cohort to see me crying And I do not want my cohort to see me crying too.

Eat, he says. Eat it, dummy. You can’t just hold it. It’s a pill. Eat it.

Mere secs later don’t feel sad At all Though face still wet, I feel pretty pretty darn good And sleepy Pretty darn good pretty darn sleepy.

If slumping down and with left eye look out window:

Nighttime farms fly by.

Why must all nighttime farm windows be orange? is a sweet mystery to think upon as down to sleep you

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