The young don't get it and the old so squinty and blind, can't see nothin not more than fifty feet off--walking time-bombs of would-ashouldas, coulda-didn'ts denting the hood of the rusted, busted antique Chevy in back-yard. The company men come by saying "Chevy kill grass," and there it was, couched in dissimulation of profiteers whose truth is always steeped in sweeted euphemism. "Grass blades like children must treat!" Then state inspector men eyeing and prying. Take samples. Send off lab. Test levels--law-book consulting and fine-damage measuring, calculating dollars in oil residue granules--never letting up.
So there it is: company men or state inspector, men so large with briefcase large to stuff you in and smiles. Standing on top of each other in room, ueseless flesh sacks sucking up so, so much oxygen. Ain't hardly none left 'tween the two of 'em. Standing in life room where hung Johnny's picture sits tire swing and Tracy-garbed graduation gown nailed. Hung up by Whiskey Wendesday housewife, little figures gently drunk and Chopin, and the fondling nail. Sweet potpourri of ancient epoch emanating through the place.
Company men eyes-painted railroad get all locomotive on childhood street. "Beat up first then beat down doors," say silky man from far of desk with pen and law and night. Bulldozing down front porch toddler-banana-mural and Nancy Linder, whose Lemon Meringue could make you sing while waltzing down the lion's throat. "Buldoze whole enterprise," they say. Hack with hatchet men every tree whose limbs you'd ever groped. "Bulldoze, bulldoze! Then lay the steal."
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