Sometimes I try “to get my shit together.” I scour job listings and training programs. When that fails, I remind myself that getting older is a matter of compromise.
They arrive at the Chicago Asylum Office from as far west as Idaho, as far south as Missouri, as far east as Ohio. How they reach those places from where they start—Bangladesh, Romania, Somalia, Guatemala—doesn’t matter. Why is the only question he has to answer, though it seems the strangest one to ask.
The other side of the window:
two chubby gods build their lives
with jollof rice and sparkling water.
All day long Polina sat anxiously waiting in her neighbors’ apartment, with its cracked windowpanes and boiling sausages, filled wall to wall with beds, piles of clothing, and damp water buckets sweating into towels.
This is the story: Kit was home after school, making her favorite sandwich of kale and peanut butter. The phone rang and she didn’t answer. They’re almost in the new millennium, but Kit’s family still has an answering machine that looks like a shoebox with vents.