Dear Wigleaf,
I'm always exiting now for scenic view, but you are never in my picnic area. Do you not like these mountains, these valleys, these rivers? the way the towns below look like a cluster of shells? We could step on them, even, if you'd like—have you packed your leather sandals?

Sometimes, Wigleaf, I'll confide I want to sit on the rooftops of all those old buildings and houses with you, the people watching football down below from shitty televisions with rabbit ears. Their team won't ever win. Smoke billows from the chimneys but we won't ever climb back down.

In these dreams I keep on having, you're always covering your face in soot, and then you turn and ask me, "Does this change a thing?" and no, of course it doesn't, because you are still the same old you.

Sometimes, Wigleaf, I find myself looking for you in other places: runaway truck ramps, weighing stations. All those small-town exits that don't even offer an old McDonalds. In busier, in-between places, I sit in booths sticky from filming ketchup and still you don't appear. Are you not my Ronald McDonald? Will I still know you when I see you? If this menu keeps on changing, I'm afraid I'll eventually place an order I never intended to place myself.


- - -

Read AB's "A Fifth of a LIfe."

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