really good for the first time, like a good worker skin still afraid of the sun and you gave yourself nicknames like filet, breast, spit, half, drippy noggin, nasty bito nugget, to fit in because the other one didn’t fit right and now you feel the accuracy. you saw a child make two Power Rangers fight Hell-In-A-Cell style inside the cab of a pickup and that really got to you didn’t it? and you, tho fertile, probed yourself inside the celibate bed of the Dodge Ram 500 in the parking lot without anyone noticing, felt the bed, smelled the metal seats, putting your nominate in between the outdoors and the back window to could look at the kids without really doing anything but looking. when you’re home later, falling back on the patio furniture in the trees, the chagrin of your mother when she tells you the eyes aren’t much, but it still looks good, and that knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad, and that accuracy is in between the throwing and the falling.
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