The only time I've ever seen Luke run, is for the puddle before the canal bridge on Pawtucket Street. He waits for a gap in traffic, braces himself, then sprints past it. If he didn't, he would surely be soaked by the tidal wave that the passing cars spin up.
It reminds me of driving to Oak Grove in my red car, 17 years old. By the time I had walked to the T, it was pouring rain and I showed up to work soaked, hardly saved by a stranger's shared umbrella. I went home early that day anyways.
My job was so safe, my life was so certain.
Now I'm choking back tears so Paul wont hear me cry over a cellphone, over my limited capacity to understand accounting. Maybe I'll see things different when the sun comes out. Every day that it gets pushed back, my head hurts, my heart yearns.
Its a long way down from the branch where everything is balanced. I'm eating chex out of sandwich bag on the way to class wearing a purple rain jacket. It looks like someone spilled milk on the sidewalk, or maybe that's just Lowell.
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