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Playing House

Playing House

Playing House

A Poem by Harlan J. Alford

There are days I’m scared of death and there are days I’m ready for It.

I’m not mad at Texas when we talked the whole way there and back. And you hurt your foot real bad and I took you to the doctor. We talked about angels and demons and that we both believe in Christmas.

I’m not mad at Uruguay when we slept on the most uncomfortable bed and when the mornings were sweet and cool and the nights were fiercely hot wood-fired fantasies eating food off each other’s forks.

I’m not mad at Spain when we danced and drank and gambled on everything until the sun scolded us and we reached the creaky fingers of the sea and sky and cliffs, where we screamed in the church on the widow's peak of the world.

I’m not mad at New York and the late night walks and parking and piss and fancy tables. The beach where we met and the skyscrapers that weren't tall enough for us.

But I’m not yours the way you want me and I want to fall for something. I tried to fall in love and I tried to fall in line but you drew a line for the love you never let yourself cross. We were aliens. Dressing up like children playing house.

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Er(ror) (For)mat

Er(ror) (For)mat