Ricky’s Dead

This lettuce smells like when Ricky took that jizzy fart in his unwashed mouth and plugged it up along with his nose. The stench escaped through his eyes! Ricky would buttress me there if only to herald his lung space but now he’s dead. Died that same time. Needed to be uncouthest. Couldn’t be anything-elsest. Wonder if the gases were noxious. Lettuce for dinner? Is there nothing else? No peas, beans, oats? “Check the ice box and then the pantry,” she said. She read my face, my slanted mouth and furrowed brows, and knew she should say something. She, after all, likely finished the oats, the beans, the peas. The oats, the peas, the beans if you like allusions. Played that one in band—really tested my ten-year-old lungs. Ricky had the same breathing tests I did, plus one—the one too many. Hope it at least occurred to him at the end that a hard jaunt would have been a better one.


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