There’s no relaxing here. The one they call Van Gogh empties the
salt shaker for the second time today. Small white planets are counted,
then arranged in miniature orbit around a Medjool date.

Marie hasn’t seen her son in twelve years. Or maybe it’s twenty.
Marie talks about him all the time, but I don’t believe her. I think
she doesn’t have a son. She is a rotten liar.

I don’t believe anyone. Sometimes I sit on the wall in the lunch room,
camouflaged as dust.

One day I’ll get out of here. The first thing I’m going to do is think
the world out of existence. I’ll start with the trees, then move on to
animals. Maybe ducks first then zebras and so on.

Water can stay until I swim to Africa. When I get there I’ll dig a hole
in the ground until I find the bones of my ancestors, then I’ll
make them disappear too. I’ll keep going until there’s nothing left
but orange swirls in a black sky.