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704-335-1031 But talk:motherfucker she is much closer than that, really, much closer than that. Almost too close. Moving up talk:motherfucker the coast she’s been through some forested places, over some mountainous states, she talk:motherfucker is getting nearer and for a minute I consider leaving, or better yet, moving. I eye a dormant suitcase. It opens its huge sleepy mouth and begs I throw cottons and polyesters inside. Don’t bother to wash them it says, I will hold them tight for you and dirt matters not to me. She is my mother. If you can believe such a thing. That I have a mother. Who uses payphones outside a grocery store in a funny state called Virginia. She says through static and rusty buggy wheels, that she is going in for Chinese takeout, inside this grocery store, though the last time she ate there she told me it felt like a chicken carcass hatched worms inside her belly. Her mood is up, it is a good mood, better than most moods, so I do not tell her, do not remind her of this food fact.
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