tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25661097426654163172011-05-13T13:51:30.422-07:00by Brian BoutwellB Boutwellnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2566109742665416317.post-72523841749679025352008-12-16T12:19:00.000-08:002008-12-17T02:03:00.337-08:00<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: times ms;font-family:;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Another night in Little <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1229458200_4">Miami</span>. Sirens in Sunset. Dogs bark. Rain. The dirt road is a mess. I decide I might quit smoking. <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1229458200_5">The Smiths</span> sing <em>You just haven't earned it yet baby</em>. Cigarette arcs in the wind. Cows in my neighbor's pasture sound like tugboats. <em></em>One day I will live in the city. Backtrack<em></em>. When I was 6 I was an archeologist; I excavated plastic dinosaurs. When I was 5 Mother cried in the woods behind our house on Griffin Street; her gravestone and epitaph drawn on wide rule—murder. [In the black and white flicker of an old movie reel<em></em>: (I hesitate between the house and the tree line, head low, eyes up. Cold air. A ghost in the shade of clouds covering the sun.)]</span></div><br /><p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2566109742665416317-7252384174967902535?l=entryxpointone.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>B Boutwellnoreply@blogger.com