Roses Are Red, Violets Are Pretty, Destination, Kansas City (bootsboots)

Four pm. Saturday. November. A car pulls into the driveway—it is white, and I am unfamiliar with it, but I suspect I know to whom it belongs anyway, and I am elated.

I can hardly wait—I am a child again, and it is amusement-park-day. My stomach is impossible to discipline, and I don’t care. I am almost in orbit. Come ON, Pete let’s GO!

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