I went on a road trip. I saw a foot.

I went on a road trip. I saw a foot.

Bumping in front of me. Attached to a leg, propped up on a headrest. Veins bulging – varicose veins. They spiral up the thighs, thickened from squatting to wipe a house much more abundant in space than the love that exists to fill the place.

I hear an annoying buzz – a complaint. They pour profusely out of lips that call my father a bastard.

I turn to meet accompanying eyes that say I may be your mother but I am the farthest thing from family.

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