All the million things I leave undone, my own personal Pacific swirl, Bermuda Triangle, fourth dimensional hole filled with things I should organize, give away, relinquish or abandon

Like anger or the mold that grows along joints and fissures

I would call the same band by two names

Pascal’s Wager or T-shirts

They would sing exactly the same songs, be beautiful and wise beyond their years, know why two names for the same band …have their

father’s ear for music

their mother’s words

And a cleaner house once all our borrowed stories are returned