The simplemindedness was eerie

yet seemed so distant,

to what in actuality was a reality to me

in this drab and desperate arena of calm in which is pursued.

“Your boy’s been in the back of my shed again, huffin’ on that gas.”

Mrs. Swoon, after having had another long miserable day at the bank, was listening to her neighbor, Bill Tunney, on the phone hollering about her messed up teenage son, who was apparently addicted to breathing the vapors of gasoline to get some sick thrill.

I can’t fucking believe it. What was I thinking?  Ten grand. Are you kidding me? No, I’m not kidding. This is fucking serious. But it was a lock. A sure thing. A sure thing?  There’s no such thing as a sure thing, you dumb fuck.