Rachel Andelman

Eyes bell but I can't bring her to the epilogue this Saturday. My stomach's an assistant with clear instructions to follow. Even the breakfast wavers on what it must sign. The tongue is a chicken around the clock, says the journal of medicine. But I see her legs cross. The tablecloth has been in my family for generations. It was brought on that Atlantic footrace into a new fold. The city had one less canal, which explains why our sons rose half-deaf. Meanwhile, phone company debts cut the budget into a shorter wardrobe, where only a World War-era diet would let us fit. Of course, I'm shaking like the pen that must explain this to my upcoming wife.