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Description
five blocks past the pink house with a brown roof, three blocks past the building with sixteen windows and no numbers, and one block after the orange haired lady with forty cats is the cemetary.  every friday night i travel past my landmarks to the east gate.  it is always locked, so i climb the fence, careful not to make a noise, people are trying to sleep.

there's always a fresh grave near the olive tree in the north lot.  an old man, "beloved friend."  i sit down with him and we talk about his life.  he isn't married and hasn't fathered a child.  he loves and misses his mamma.  his ground smells strongly of the summer heat.

not far off, a little girl 1999-2004 "sydney anne conrad. she was all smiles." a cute little girl with lopsided pigtails. she loves hopscotch and wants to marry her uncle mike.  if she can't marry him, then her teacher will do.  i read her a bedtime story and she falls asleep hugging the doll her uncle  gave her.

the man who killed my father rests near by.  he had a good reason to hate him, but i think he's starting to feel bad.  i try to console him, but he's a stubborn man.  hard headed even in victory.  he out ran the police and my mother and made it mexico.  when he got there he acquired food poisoning and died.  his family brought him back to lay with his brother.

i make my rounds and introduce myself to the new members of my family.  they're all tired, they say.  it's late, can't i come back in the morning? i laugh with them and continue on avoiding the west gate; the graves there smell like rabbit food.

my mother says that i make things up and that i shouldn't be bothering people when they're sleeping, but the orange haired lady with forty cats leaves a new book for me every friday so that i'll read to her granddaughter.

Description
five blocks past the pink house with a brown roof, three blocks past the building with sixteen windows and no numbers, and one block after the orange haired lady with forty cats is the cemetary.  every friday night i travel past my landmarks to the east gate.  it is always locked, so i climb the fence, careful not to make a noise, people are trying to sleep.

there's always a fresh grave near the olive tree in the north lot.  an old man, "beloved friend."  i sit down with him and we talk about his life.  he isn't married and hasn't fathered a child.  he loves and misses his mamma.  his ground smells strongly of the summer heat.

not far off, a little girl 1999-2004 "sydney anne conrad. she was all smiles." a cute little girl with lopsided pigtails. she loves hopscotch and wants to marry her uncle mike.  if she can't marry him, then her teacher will do.  i read her a bedtime story and she falls asleep hugging the doll her uncle  gave her.

the man who killed my father rests near by.  he had a good reason to hate him, but i think he's starting to feel bad.  i try to console him, but he's a stubborn man.  hard headed even in victory.  he out ran the police and my mother and made it mexico.  when he got there he acquired food poisoning and died.  his family brought him back to lay with his brother.

i make my rounds and introduce myself to the new members of my family.  they're all tired, they say.  it's late, can't i come back in the morning? i laugh with them and continue on avoiding the west gate; the graves there smell like rabbit food.

my mother says that i make things up and that i shouldn't be bothering people when they're sleeping, but the orange haired lady with forty cats leaves a new book for me every friday so that i'll read to her granddaughter.