Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

I wrote this on the back of a dirty napkin left on the bench after a storm: This isn’t the bed we shared. These sheets never knew our passion. And this home is not the one we once fantasized of. These walls hold no memories of our words, hold no understanding of what we meant …

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Depression’s heavy. Cinder blocks lined on your shoulders heavy. Beached whale heavy. Burden-laden, love-ridden, endless insomniac nighttime, television watching heavy. I lost myself in the rows of gravestones looking for his, Teddy’s–a high school friend who died before graduation. Izzy wanted to visit the cemetery, and since they have no dead relatives they knew or …

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