mrs. zimmerman’s saffron

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me and my brother donny used to run in the summertime. it was

good, the smell of air
        and little old mrs. zimmerman’s potted saffron on her porch.

donny would knock on her door and talk a hundred miles an hour; he would tell her

about catching crayfish down in the creeks and sexual couples behind the skating rink.
                ( old lady mrs. zimmerman liked his stories, I believe, but that one )

.
.
.
I guess I was too young to
know for sure, but I have a feeling that
she had lost the man in her life;

she never said as much to donny but herself talked about the

sock hops and the elvis and the being so special that she got to go behind the

soda fountain where the soda jerk poured smiles and syrups.



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