BOX/BOXES

*knock knock* knocks the woman in the weird dress.

—(noise noise noise).

—Sorry, I don’t understand Estonian.

She looks around. Hmph.

—(noise noise noise).

—Sorry, I don’t understand Russian.

Her face shows anger. She turns around and her boots sound against the solid ground. And she goes down the stairs stomping on skulls and ready to kill someone. I bet she’s saying fucking foreigners why the fuck don’t they speak a real fucking language as I think to myself fucking witch why can’t she even attempt to fucking communicate and the woman starts yelling at someone downstairs and I bet she’s saying you sent me to that ignorant paki who knows shit and now everything’s a mess and why the fuck can’t you do shit right.

I close the door as I hear her noise.

You can read Velda. You can read Kusta. You can even read Leena. You can take a walk and enjoy the park today. Not even grieving sons will give you bad looks.
And let me tell you (this is a good tip): you can get here for free.

Silly you, thinking those things. You know it’s been done. You know better. You know such selfish shallow peevishness should chop your spirit and put you to sleep. But whatever, right?

*Ahem*
In the act of walking through these gates
I display with no affect
that our heads are turning gray
of looking so much at the dead.

Don’t fool yourself. Just don’t.

What if I tell you that today at the cemetery I ran through some graves, huh? What if I tell you that I didn’t care at all? Is that gonna be better? Is that better now? It’s not something important; it’s really just that.

Take it easy.

That’s right.