1:25:01
Will you drive me
to the station, hmm?
1:25:08
Agh, don't ever bet
against paradox, ladies!
1:25:13
If complexity doesn't get you,
paradox will!
1:25:16
Ha-ha!
1:25:18
Ho-ho!
1:25:20
Hee-hee!
1:25:26
The brown paper bag
1:25:28
is the only thing
civilized man has produced
1:25:31
that does not seem
out of place in nature.
1:25:34
Crumpled into a wad
of wrinkles
1:25:37
like the fossilized brain
of a dryad,
1:25:40
blending with rock
and vegetation
1:25:42
as if it were
a burrowing owl's doormat
1:25:45
or a jackrabbit's
underwear,
1:25:47
a number eight
kraft paper bag
1:25:49
lay discarded
in the Oregon hills
1:25:52
and appeared to live
where it lay.
1:25:55
Once long ago,
it had borne a package of buns
1:25:59
and a jar of mustard
1:26:01
to a kitchenette rendezvous
with a fried hamburger.
1:26:03
Most recently,
the bag had held love letters.
1:26:08
As a hole in an oak
hides a squirrel's family jewels,
1:26:11
the bag had hidden
love letters
1:26:13
in the bottom
of a bunkhouse trunk.
1:26:15
Then one day after work,
1:26:18
the lanky filly to whom
the letters were addressed,
1:26:20
gathered bag and contents
under her arm,
1:26:24
slipped down to the corral
1:26:26
past ranch hands
pitchin' horseshoes,
1:26:28
and ranch hands
flyin' Tibetan kites,
1:26:30
saddled up and trotted
into the hills.
1:26:35
A mile or so
from the bunkhouse,
1:26:37
she dismounted
and built a small fire.
1:26:39
She fed the fire letters,
one by one,
1:26:43
the way her girlfriend
had once fed her french fries.
1:26:47
As words such as "sweetheart"
and "honey britches"
1:26:50
and "forever" and "always"
burned away,
1:26:53
the cowgirl squirted
a few fat tears.
1:26:56
Her eyes were so misty,
she forgot to burn the bag.