Bird's World, Franklin Park Zoo, Boston, MA

Bird's World, Franklin Park Zoo, Boston, MA

broken things

Today,Topanga State Beach, CA

Yesterday's kitchen Floor, Los Feliz

And the Same is True of All of Us

As I drove back to work from a lunch hour that involved me not so much eating as watching my dog relieve herself, I put on my sunglasses for the first time on this lush and grey Thursday, the Sun finally coming out just in time to set. Just like every other trip in my car for the last two weeks, I was listening to Juno’s “This is the Way it Goes and Goes and Goes”. I started to sing along with his low, soft scream, and I thought of you. I don’t remember if it was something funny you said, or your laughter, or the shape of your face, but I thought of you, and that memory made me happy, and I wanted you to know that.

No.

You.

I’m talking about you.

You may or may not dance at nighttime through the dreams of others like smoke or candy or a great and monstrous train, but I can guarantee that during every moment of every waking daytime somewhere someone is thinking of you. Maybe it’s your mother or your boss, or maybe it’s the last heart you broke or that quiet special someone who can’t ever seem to get you off their mind, or maybe it’s your third grade teacher or some guy at American Express carefully monitoring your credit card expenditures, or maybe it’s me, but somewhere someone is thinking of you.

Don’t look so surprised. Have you seen you? Go ahead. Look in the mirror, close your eyes, and take a good, hard look at you.

You.

You are beautiful.

You are talented.

You are kind.

You are you and you are loved.

You.

You feel that?

You’re smiling.

Because you know I’m right.

literature man walks through town

patchwork

skull

A still-hardening skull crashes into a crib of gravel. It’s like a spool letting loose, the clattering of tension, a rolling that lasts from here to the hospital bed. That man, the one of whom you’re a parcel—an unanticipated exclamation launched through hollows—folds you over his shoulder. You’re six plus feet up, ears ringing like the testing of a tornado siren, and he’s murmuring to you, just barely, over the idling autos, pushing along his bike and yours.

The vacation has been called off. You’d been presuming sprung pup tents, the cool moisture beading over you—a storm, maybe, smothering the fire and relegating everyone to the lighting of flashes.

Where you are is named for saints. There’s no record of how you made it here, but this is where you’ve come to be entangled. You’ve sprouted tentacles. Their guts are as empty as your own, but they manage somehow to lend you cloying moisture at specified intervals.

He had a story that he always told on camping trips about a one-eyed banshee named Cy who’d taken an axe to the breadth of his family tree. Transient, wayward, county-hopping, Cy was always at the heels of your hiking boots. In the same way dreams inspire treacherous rebirth in supplicated combatants, dusk awakened the fury of termination in Cy. There were rumors that he’d licked the blood from his axe, so to say he had a taste for it was not just figurative.

Early summer, the smells and sun melting over everything. There is no way to retract the windows—the coverings are pulled tight most of the day. You have the vague feeling of nothing really being wrong with you, that all of this is just something into which you’ve been wrongly placed. They feed you into machines that swallow you whole. Blood is drawn; cards pile up, flimsy toys bought in the lobby below. There are other visitors, but what you’re aware of most is how he keeps watch over you, pacing back, sitting down, occupying himself by stroking your brow.

It’s all a rehearsal for the way that days can wind down. Statistics bob over you, incomprehensible charts. You’re just beginning to understand the significance of numbers. Percentages lilt. The doctor, who is covered with a field of exploded follicles that pause only at his eyelids, pays intermittent visits. He speaks a language that translates to silence—eventually he palms your crown.

As you’re putting your shoes on for the first time in a week, they come across with a menu. You’re horribly tired of frozen grapes. But you’re rushed out with nothing.

At home, still disappointed that the fennel-laced accouterments could not be yours, you take the glossy sides of Mylar balloons to the uncombed mess of your chlorine-wrecked hair. They cling to the wall and stay there until they pale.

***

It’s well known that lights kept on in skyscrapers prompts the collision of birds in the night. There is that sound, that smack, late, against the taut slant of the tent wall. The tapping of an axe. You crouch deeper into your pumpkin-colored sleeping bag and flex your leg out to make sure that he is still there, keeping watch, lungs expanding.

combat and ballet

marilyn (feather ceiling)

Marilyn's face would have kids lassoing around her, wide loops of wide and not so wide kids, the fat or bones dancing on their bodies as they whooped up and down, taunting Marilyn with weird constructions. "Helium buttons, balloon skin!" "Frosty the Snow Bitch!" "Baby woman, go home on the range!" "Knotty tree cranium, sick, sick!" "Scareilyn bear face!"

Marilyn opted out of caring. "It's a coping mechanism," the doctors (specialists, all) would tell her father, who loved her very much, and her mother, who buried her shame in thick, boastful gradients of pride. It wasn't that at all, the reason Marilyn more or less sealed her lips shut for anything other than to eat and drink the things she liked.

She'd kick down the country roads that lead like a cross from her house. She'd walk until long after her knees were sore and her shoes started to slope from outward pronation.

As she walked those roads, she'd listen to the wind scrape the leaves on the trees and the nearly blond wild grass until it all rattled, and tried to align cadences with the shuttering cicadas.

She'd take it all in. She'd gulp it down like it was lemonade. Predators swooping out of the sky to swiftly murder prey, the patter of chipmunks on mud, a branch smacking down, roaring. She'd reach up to her horrific face (they said that and she agreed so it must be fact) while continuing to walk and wipe away bits of sweat that the humidity of late August pulled from her.

The reason she blocked it out, all the theories and taunts, was this. This was all that really mattered, she knew, was all that was real. And the falseness of the rest of it terrified her.

Not the guitar solo for 'Love Spreads'

aged and grown...so far

I sit with me and I wish for better company
The horizon line gets near--
but I can't see it anymore
All I can see is your face in front of mine
songs will fill tomorrow.
but I long for yesterday--
when those hours lasted for all those days
and through all those nights
and the stars. i can't count or touch the stars.
but I want to kiss your face--goodnight.
I can't reach that high above the earth
where you shine so brightly among those stars.

It's all sharply defined
referring to the equivalent of me.
Elation fades past days
Let's imitate the real thing and
exaggerate our courage.
Fake pleasure in the details.
Let's create an analogy
for the purpose of understanding
keeps on spelling out the obvious...
nothing has the same effect as you.

Cut holes so you can see through
my windows and my words.
You were the best looking one in the room tonight.
Losing light with desire--
the dawn is lying to me again--for so many years in a row.
I think that dream was you.
moving in me.
Curiosity is overwhelming me day by day.
but I won't be killed again...
that cat died nine times ago.

Security Blanket

Never Say You're Sorry for the Waste You’ve Lain, Because We’ve All Got Marks to Carve.

There are varicose sidewalks beneath my skin
to a city whose subways thunder disappointment
with the systolic rhythm of missed opportunity.
White blood cells disinterestedly wave away from the bleeding wreckage
beautiful tourists armed with spray paint and misplaced vendetta:
“Move along. There’s nothing to see here anymore.”
Workers fill abandoned atriums with cement.
I point left, tell them, “You missed a spot.”

The woman in the back listlessly sings “Is that all there is to a fire?”
She dresses in apologies, living her life with her suicide on pause.
She's earned the immune system of a trailer park, suffering disaster with duct tape and inertia, defying guilt, derision bouncing off her foam trucker hat, using self-acceptance like judo in a gunfight.
Call it obstinacy,
call it laziness
she’s not going on anywhere.
“This is what I am. And I can’t be ashamed of that anymore. The view of my shoes never changes and you deserve to look me in the eyes to see how your scorn is received.”

The future seeps through the vents and speaks like the backhand of God,
“There’s a horizon in this night, so squint harder, boy.”
leaving guiding trails in countertop dust of dead skin and the skeletal remains of hope long since calcified.
And I file down my scars,
because this nerve can never be raw enough
and,
Mom,
they tell me I clean up pretty well.

these are my friends and this is what we do

Sex Ed

How was I supposed to know what it meant?

I mean there's blow jobs, hand jobs, tug jobs, strap-ons, hard-ons, money shots and 100 different things. Like I'm supposed to keep it all straight.

Everybody knows it was me too because Mike told Sarah. Mike knows because I asked him what it meant last week and he told me it was something you buy at a porno shop. Now Sarah told all her friends and the girls keep laughing at me in the hallway.

I hate Mr. Tunney too.

He just kept smiling and whispering to Miss Kemper, even after they'd gone on to the next question. Why do we even have to go to sex ed anyway, it's not like I'm going to need to know this stuff anytime soon. Especially now that everyone thinks I'm an idiot.

I've never even kissed a girl who wasn't my mom or my grandma, and it's not exactly like that's good practice for anything.

It was after they told us about wet dreams and showed us close ups of women with chlamydia. After the video of a baby coming out and the diagram of the penis. After they told us that condoms can break and lectured us about teen parenting.

It was after all of that when they passed out note cards and asked us to write any other questions we had and pass them to the front.

I almost didn't write anything, but they hadn't answered my question and I figured that nobody would know it was me anyway.

Miss Kemper collected all the cards and brought them to the front, and Mr. Tunney pulled out the first one and read the question.

"Can you get A.I.D.S from a toilet seat?"

"No," said Miss Kemper. "That's a common misconception, but it would be almost impossible to get A.I.D.S., or any other sexually transmitted disease for that matter, from a toilet seat."

"Alright gang, next question," Mr. Tunney said as he pulled the next card out of the basket.

"Is it true that if you masturbate you can go blind?" No. "When you're having sex can your penis break?" Yes. "Are fake boobs really filled with air?" No...and on and on until finally I saw Mr. Tunney pull out my folded note card.

He started laughing right away when he read it, and then he showed it to Miss Kemper. She started blushing and smiling, but was trying not to show it. I don't get what's so funny about it and I bet a lot of other kids didn't know what it meant either.

How am I supposed to know what Love Handles are, it sounds like it should be dirty.

Reach Out (I'll Be There)

every muscle sore

On the battlefield of words, all soldiers are asleep, having dreams like whispers about the way things might have been if they hadn't ended up as they have.

It happens, just does. Night arches its back and they assail each other like a hailstorm. There's a wicked hardness to the pellet of each utterance. It's as difficult to stand as it is to stand up to.

So they sleep again tonight like men who have almost died.

Eventually they'll wake, their smallest muscles jousted through with soreness, coughing up fog. They'll agree and say for not the last time that this change, now that it has finally come, is more than good and that it will last nearly as long as forever.

Less Worries

once bitten

thud.

Thud.

THUD!

Maggie sat in the chilly humidity of the basement, her fingers poised falteringly over the lower register of the ivory keys. The piano sounded as though it was underwater and she sighed heavily. Didn’t her mom know anything? Pianos shouldn’t be put in basements.

THUDDDDDDDD!!!!!!

Just for emphasis.

The cinderblock walls echoed the muddy notes. The piano was a total pile of garbage: The cat had used it for a scratching post for years and the kids had used it for an emotional punching bag. She unhooked her right foot from underneath her left knee where she’d curled it for warmth in the basement’s damp atmosphere, and shook it a little to loosen the pins; it felt as though someone were pouring cool, dry sand over her bare foot.

At the top of the stairs, a shaft of light jutted through the dim basement, lit with only one overhead bulb. A shadow appeared at the top of the stairs, then an ungraceful and angular figure swung down the stairs, three at a time, using the handrails like monkeybars. Laura.

“Hey,” Maggie said, turning her face back to the tops of the ivories, which gleamed in the double light. The tops were slightly scratched, giving them the appearance of the underside of a leaf.

“Hey,” a husky voice echoed, slightly out of breath. “Where’s Mom?”

“I don’t know. I thought she was upstairs?”

“Good. Can I borrow five?”

Maggie’s eyes shot back towards her older sister, standing outlined by the light of the open door. One hand was on her freshly shaved but still faintly blonde head.

“What did you do to your hair? You look like a total asshole.”

“I didn’t ask for an evaluation; I asked to borrow five bucks,” Laura annunciated, a tiny bit irked that she had pointed out the obvious. “And watch your mouth – you swear way too much for an eleven-year-old.”

“What do you need the five bucks for?” Maggie asked discriminatorily, reaching up to close the cover of the keyboard with a firm indication of what her answer should be.

“A pack. I’m out.”

“You’re gonna get cancer like Grandpa Mike and have to shove a piece of plastic up your nose just to breathe before you’re out of high school. You’re going to look stupid and die.”

“I’m prepared to deal with that.”

“Where’s Jerome?”

Jerome was their five-year-old brother.

“He’s in the bathroom, doing lord knows what.”

“What do you mean, ‘lord knows what’? Aren’t you supposed to watch him so he doesn’t fall in the toilet?”

“I have exceptional hearing.” Laura stuck out her hand covered with a black-inked homemade tattoo of an enormous open-mouthed skull. “I’ll hear the splash and come running,” she guaranteed. Impatiently, she said, “Listen, Maggie, you don’t need to buy anything and you get a killer allowance, so you’re the richest little kid in Detroit. What gives? I’ll pay you back.”

“I charge interest, remember?” Maggie gritted her teeth and pulled crumpled bills out of her back jeans pocket. She reached into the other pocket, and pulled out a small flip notebook. She dated a line, and wrote: FIVE BUCKS. She was into page thirty or so. The thirty pages spoke volumes of her innate idealism.

Laura sucked her breath in sharply, imagining that first, blessed hit of nicotine. Suddenly, she seemed to realize the embarrassing quality of the situation, begging a child five years her junior for money, and got flustered and anxious to keep the continuum of motion in play. “Alright. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay? I’m just going to the corner.” She turned to go, her sneakers squeaking, but stopped suddenly at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a lime green thermal that emphasized her paleness and freckles. Her eyes, black in the dim light, lifted Maggie’s up to make sure she was listening, “Can you stay upstairs to make sure Jerome’s okay while I’m gone?”

Maggie dropped her eyes and mumbled, “Sure.” Her sister was always covering her ass for something she wasn’t doing, anyway. Always multitasking.

Maggie looked up. She was gone.

SLAM! The door shook the windows.

Maggie reached up to grab hold of the chain switch between her fingers. She pulled. The basement stairs lightened with each step, and she soon found herself in the bright, drenching sun of the living room: beige carpeting, white walls, mirrors, family photos. The air had gone from basement-damp to late-October--indoors, windows-shut dusty.

She heard the water in the upstairs bathroom running, a dull, inner-wall sound. What the hell could a five-year-old be doing in the bathroom with the water running?

Surprisingly, the door opened right up when she test-jiggled the handle. Jerome was standing in front of the mirror, his huge head of black waves sticking out to shield his face. His hand was in his mouth, wiggling something.

“Dude, you got a loose tooth?”

The wide-eyed expression that met Maggie’s eyes was one mixed with surprise and fear, as still-baby fingers tugged and shook cautiously at the rooted foundations of primary teeth.

“Yea –aeah,” Jerome gurgled, spit and blood making a tiny river down his chin. Obviously, brave curiosity was at play, and he wasn’t crying y-e-t…so.

“Well, you need anything? An ice cube? A hug? A knuckle-sandwich?”

She knew this would make him laugh. It worked.

Blood sprayed all over the bathroom mirror in gleeful, red droplets.

“Thtop it. I’m thrying to thoncenthrate.”

Maggie squinted both visibly and mentally as she evaluated the situation. Should she just let her little brother go to town on his tooth without ‘adult’ supervision, or should she do the whole coaching thing that’s expected in these childhood milestones? She recalled her loose teeth memories, and just wanting to be left alone. In fact, she might’ve swallowed half of her loose baby teeth in her sleep, by accident anyway.

“Want me to stick around to watch the fun, buddy?”

“Eh.” Jerome stated, closing his mouth and visibly wiggling the tooth with his tongue. He had a lumpy cheek. He turned his attention to the mirror, opening wide to reveal the multitudinous future of loose prospects. Maggie looked cockeyed at the red-spattered mirror and shrugged. What more could he do, anyway?

“Well, if you need some help, just let me know,” She looked him in the mirrored eyes – the hazels were more calm now. “I’ll be right…” she pointed outside the bathroom door, “out there.”

“Othay,” he agreed, his tongue wiggling away at the tooth, again.

Maggie closed the bathroom door, and went back into the dusty warmth of the living room. Outside, dry, blowing leaves were wreaking havoc on pretty much any plant life that was still in existence on the ground. She looked out the window, and down the sidewalk. The thin, defiant figure of her sister appeared, her very jeans even arguing her every step, their hugeness blowing in the wind; any other direction than her. Her hair just existed. No movement. The original shoulder-length pigtails were just phantom images now. She looked so goddamn ridiculous. Maggie rolled her eyes, but went into the kitchen, anyway, to be there when she came through the door.

“Lose something?” Maggie shot at her as soon as she appeared through the door.

“What?” Laura asked, looking down and around at her sneakers, baggy jeans, green thermal shirt. She felt her pockets. “What’d I lose?” Her eye looked even more green with that shirt. Confused.

“Your hair.” Maggie inquired, “Where’d it disappear to?”

“Eff you,” Laura slapped down a crinkly, plastic supermarket bag on the kitchen countertop as she bent down to unlace her black Adidas. Maggie saw more than one object in the bag.

“Jerome’s losing a tooth right now,” she announced, craning her neck to get a better view of the contents of the bag. Cigarettes and something else…

“Huh?”

“Yeah. He probably has it out by now.”

“Why aren’t you up there with him?”

“I was. He doesn’t need my help, I guess.”

Laura raised her eyebrows for a minute, then finished shaking off her sneakers. She strode past Maggie authoritatively with her bag and within seconds could be heard knocking on the bathroom door. She waited and toed the kitchen floor. “You forgot my change!” she yelled after a full minute. She looked up.

Laura stood in front of her. “Come with me for a sec.”

Down the stairs and into the basement; on went the lone lightbulb.

“Everything okay?”

Laura was at the piano, lifting the top and peering inside its depths where shiny tines lay like musical teeth. “Uhm-hmm,” she responded. “It’s out – the tooth.” A flash of white paper was handed off to Maggie before the update could register.

“What’s this?” Maggie held a slightly wrinkled and very lumpy envelope in her hand. Opening it, she found several singles, fives…a bunch of twenties. “What is this?” she repeated. “Why’s there money in the piano?”

“It’s yours,” Laura said.

Maggie blinked.

“It’s pretty much everything you’ve ever lent to me over the last few years. I knew you never expected me to pay you back, but I didn’t want to disappoint you by following through on that.” She eye-cornered Maggie with a glance and nervously laughed. “You expect nothing but the worst from me…you’ve got every reason: I’ve been a pretty crappy sibling, but I always wanted to pay you back no matter what, so I’ve made sure to put everything I borrowed into that envelope within a week of borrowing it from you…I just didn’t want you to know yet. I wanted to give it all back to you in a few years to put towards a car, but I think you’d probably rather have a new piano right now? Maybe one that can stay upstairs?”

Maggie looked at Laura, then at the dilapidated piano, then at the envelope full of tightly packed bills. “How many packs of cigarettes is this?” she asked as she gave her sister a hug. She didn’t want Laura to see that she was probably going to cry.

Upstairs, Jerome tucked his freshly yanked tooth underneath his pillow, and ran outside to play catch with his pal, Casper. Maggie went upstairs and looked at the baby tooth under the pillow covered with flying Supermans. It had traces of now-brown blood at the root and caught the glint of the late-afternoon October sun from the window. She cradled it for a few seconds before pulling a fiver from the bulging envelope from her back pocket. She soundlessly slid them together under the flying Supermans and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth.

where were the breadcrumbs now?

soft magics

There were kittens everywhere. Crawling over armchairs and scaling bookshelves and popping tiny kitten heads out from behind doors and under beds. Gray kittens and white kittens and orange kittens and black kittens. Patterned kittens, in tortoiseshell and patchwork and tiger stripe and paint splotch. Purebred kittens, with pedigrees and lineages, from the finest schools. Street kittens, with chips on their shoulders and no breeding, but hearts of scrappy gold. Tiny kittens and giant kittens. Skinny kittens and fat kittens. Kittens sleeping and running and pouncing and meowing and stalking and scratching and dancing and eating and planning and dreaming. Kittens everywhere.

Kacey was a dog person. She’d grown up with dogs, liked their loyalty, their playfulness, the way they looked at her with nothing but pure adoration in their eyes. She still had a photo album back at her house that was filled with snapshots of all her old dogs, from Goldie to Snappers to Goldie Jr. She’d pull it out on autumn days when she was feeling nostalgic and remember the good times she’d had with her pups. But she wasn’t at her house now; she was at her aunt Gretchen’s, and Gretchen was most definitely a cat person.

Kacey stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her, nearly catching a tabby in the doorway. She brushed past the brocade couch and felt Siamese paws grab at her skirt. She gingerly stepped around the chipped wood coffee table where a giant Maine coon sprawled, halfway falling off. Two twin calicos watched her from the top of the china cabinet, their green eyes blinking in unison.

Aunt Gretchen was sitting in the kitchen, playing solitaire and drinking lemon tea that smelled like whiskey. A Russian Blue rubbed against her legs and purred as she flipped the ace of clubs over.

“Hey Auntie. How’s Tuesday treating you?” Kacey dropped her bag by the kitchen table. Three white strays immediately ran over to inspect it.

“Same as always, which is nothing to complain about. Pour yourself a drink, sweetie. I’m almost done here.” Aunt Gretchen didn’t look up as she gestured to the cabinet where she kept the tea bags and the liquor. Kacey grabbed a mug and a bag of English Breakfast. She left the whiskey where it was. A black and white tabby peeked through the half-finished bottle of Jack from the other side, the glass distorting its oversized head, making its already huge kitten eyes immense. Kacey closed the cabinet.

As Kacey put the water on to boil, Aunt Gretchen kept at her cards, alternately mumbling to herself and throwing out conversation to her niece.

“How’s your mum doing? Been to the doctor yet?”

“No. She’s okay. I told her what you said, but… She says she’s okay.”

Aunt Gretchen let out a sad sigh. The Persian on her lap also let out a sad sigh.

“That woman’s stubborn. You know it as well as I do. She won’t listen to anything but doctors and science, but still, you just have to keep hoping.”

“I’ll keep at her, Auntie. Don’t worry.” The teakettle sang out in a tone like a high purr. Kacey lifted it off the stove and poured her mug three-quarters full, leaving just enough room for an ice cube. A Himalayan and a hairless Sphynx sat curled around each other, on top of the refrigerator. When she walked over, the Himalyan was kind enough to open the freezer door for her with its paw.

“And your sister? How’s she?” Kacey shrugged, though her aunt didn’t see it. The Sphynx reached a six-fingered paw out and closed the freezer door.

“I haven’t heard from her in, ah, two months now, I guess.” Kacey pulled a chair out from the table, brushed off the jet-black kitten with the missing ear from the seat, and sat down. “We kind of got into it over the holidays.”

“I thought as much,” Gretchen said, turning over an ace of diamonds. “The cards never lie.”

Kacey sipped her tea and watched her aunt lay down the cards in neat rows. Ace of diamonds on ace of spades. Ten of clubs on six of hearts. Eleven of ill-conceived wishes on thirteen of kittens. Gretchen’s deck was new every time.

“What game are you playing this week?” Kacey asked as the Turkish Angora in the chair across the table mouthed her words back at her as she said them. Kacey thought how much she missed Goldie and Snappers and Goldie Jr. Her dogs would never have been so presumptuous, so rude.

“It’s a prayer for the future, dear. For your sister’s well being.” She flipped the top card over, to the two of hearts. “I think she’s coming home.”

“That would be nice, I guess,” Kacey said, taking another sip of her tea. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Abby coming home. She loved her sister, but she was so difficult, so much work… Kacey closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

“Aunt Gretchen?” she asked, not opening her eyes. “Why kittens?”

Gretchen clucked her tongue at the question and Kacey could hear the deck being shuffled. She opened her eyes and watched a Korat stack the cards into a neat pile.

“You need something loyal and smart,” Gretchen answered, picking up the deck again. "Something full of energy but easily managed.” She placed the deck on the table and tapped it. “But really, I think I just like how fluffy they are.”

Kacey looked over to Gretchen, and her aunt looked back at her with bright green eyes. She pushed the cards toward Kacey and shrugged.

“You can pick whatever you like, when it comes down to it. When you’re done with your lessons, and ready to hang your shingle out. But I like kittens the best of all.”

Kacey picked up the deck and cut it three times. Aunt Gretchen began explaining the cards to her in low tones, the same lesson she’d heard before, which card meant good fortune, which card signaled trouble, how to read the face and position. Underneath the table kittens brushed against her ankles and purred under her chair and danced in a circle on their hind legs. Kacey began to deal, and thought about all the puppies she would have someday. Puppies everywhere. She placed the first card and dealt out her future.

you are first to hear

Listen/download:

The Fitting Room
"Move to the Country"

(2:26)