Look how green it all is Mitch.

How can you say the things you say you feel like when every thing outside is green like it is.

The window over the sink of my kitchenet is cleaned off from the hard rain last night, and it is a morning with sun, it is still early, and there is a mess of green out.

The trees are green and some grass out past the speed bumps is green and slicked down.

But every thing is not green.

The other trailers are not green, and my card table out with puddles in lines and beer cans and butts floating in the ash trays is not green, or my truck, or the gravel of the lot, or the big wheel toy that is on its side under a clothes line without no clothes on it by the next trailer, where the guy has got him some kids.

Everything is green she is saying.

She is whispering it and the whisper is not to me no more I know.

I chuck my smoke and turn hard from the morning outside with the taste of something true in my mouth.

I turn hard toward her in the light on the sofa lounger.

She is looking outside, from where she is sitting, and I look at her, and there is something in me that can not close up, in that looking.

I turn hard toward her in the light on the sofa lounger.

She is looking outside, from where she is sitting, and I look at her, and there is something in me that can not close up, in that looking.

Mayfly has a body. And she is my morning.

Say her name.

Excerpt from "Everything is Green" by DFW.