"I wanted to be a haiku poet," Elizabeth

"I wanted to be a haiku poet," Elizabeth said, "but never could make the turns work." It was a common complaint.
"I had to give up my life passion and go into the family business. You know it, you pass by it all the time." "The old
garage at the corner of Main and Route 9? I know the place. My pop is good friends with old Tom. They play checkers together on the weekends. They are
-- well, they're friends now, but there's a history there. Have you heard the story about the rhutabaga and the meter maid?
Or the one about the old rusty car bumper and the bank teller? Geesh, everyone round' here knows that one. U should of seen the look on Old Man Keller's face when he heard the
bank teller was really his wife. After all these years, he thought she died on the operating table. What would he ever tell his children? He couldn't face his friends, so he
left town on the next train to nowhere. He was now a wanderer, one with no past and no regrets. Okay, he had regrets, but not many. He was happy that
rash finally cleared up without having to go to the free clinic. AWK-WARD!
What was really free about it anyway though? She was there. Staring. Waiting for me to arrive again. Waiting to see which fresh waste I'd dragged in from night of who can remember.
With a triumphant wave of my hand, I laid out the night's trash treasures, a cornucopia of rubbish. My cat's eyes lit up and in her purr, I knew that she would never run away again

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