25
Then one day you say the wrong thing to the wrong person and bam!, you’re fired
and forgotten,
shaken from Maya without even a goodbye,
blown by the wind in the streets
with waves of other discarded bourgeois youth,
we the losers.
The Machine hungers for new blood.
A quarter century, and back to the starting point. Not much to show for all the trouble — a couple babies, a résumé full of job-hopping, a few boxes of the antidepressants I now can’t afford, too many books, too much debt. It doesn’t matter. In the town nothing’s real except the town. It’s morning and grandma is baking me cake.
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