Marjorie at Ninety Seven

She lost her purse in Macy’s by the elevator. An avalanche of sighing later the jurists strode in and announced –in no particular order–a Riesling with Russian soup and rye bread was leaving by the side door.

Cannon fire began to wither the legs of farmers in the mountain regions where the night sky was met with the belief that no amount of praying could relieve what was already being settled by the village elders in ways known to produce wine stain scars below the neckline.

A bridges was erected with its hemline of trunks facing the roller coaster where the boy had been found drinking a mix of frustration and longing for the canteen where shovels were sold in tight silver skins.

Nevertheless the day produced an original folio of essays by each participant in the century’s wars arranged so their painted sides hung loosely with arms pinned at the elbows and a cart load of cut flowers were arranged on long white tables, extending into the hallway and behind the gymnasium where we lost a purse in Macy’s on a day much like today. Lighter skies perhaps but very similar.

–Burl Whitman

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