Your breath of sweet and sour, I can smell it in the 
air. It serves as a substitute for perfume you don't 
wear. There are geraniums in a child-size stadium on my 
block, and from this room with you I want so badly to 
take a walk. You can keep your head of hair, I only 
want a lock. Won't you come and see these clovers, 
Ellen O'Dauver? We watch the children stare at us with 
eyes so glazed, like deer caught in headlights. Wood 
chips and rocks will be raised and placed in their 
mouths. Their moms soon shout, but quietly, and as we 
sit I am so glad you chose to walk with me. When you 
watch their faces I wonder what it is you see. Oh 
Ellen, Ellen dear, the sky's cleared. Now on my porch, 
you're telling me about the time your sister called you 
down to dinner but did it in pantomime. You didn't hear 
it. She didn't clear it with your eardrums first. Your 
mom got angry, you got blamed  it was the worst. Ellen, 
when I'm with you, I think I need a nurse, because the 
cat has got my tongue and I am bee-stung. After you 
left I accepted cleaning as my fate, but first I paused 
to plunder the potatoes left upon your plate. I thought 
about the movers, Ms. Vancouver, and how they ever fit 
all of the stuff you carried away from your Aunt 
Margaret. And oh, I can't speak for them, but as for 
myself, I may have laughed a bit as I imagined the 
arrangement of your estate  man, I can't wait. Back in 
this room, I sit alone with sweet and sour still 
permeating the space around this tiny shelving tower. 
Ellen O'Dauver, I eat leftovers and mourn while you're 
away, practicing these crooked scripts of what I might 
say. My lungs rise and fall, unnoticed like these games 
we play. I wish that you would come over and breathe 
here every day.