Just now I discover that my salt shaker has gold dust in it, not salt.

All summer, I’ve felt important, but sluggish—weighed down like a motherfucker.

On the last day possible, I go to the doctor.
He’s studied the X-rays.
Consulted the blood work.
Even looked down my throat with a very high powered flashlight.
“What happens when you try to swim in a pool?”
“I sink right to the bottom.”
“What should I do?”
“Keep eating, you’ll be rich soon.”

Sometimes when I came home things in my house were different.
A TV remote on the couch where I don’t sit.
Toilet lid left down.
Jar of mayonnaise sideways in the fridge.

I’d had a problem once with squirrels in the attic. This time, when I pulled the string and took the stairs up, I found a girl sleeping in C in a nest of pink insulation.

She lifted her head, “I’ve been paying rent.”
I said, “Listen, you should come down here and talk out your mysteries.”


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