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This work is licensed
under a Creative Commons
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Postmodern Village
est. 1999
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Are there McDonalds in heaven?
by Francine DuBois

"Pastor Kessleman says heaven is like a dream." - Mittens DuBois, age 8


I can't get my Game Boy to access the Internet
And I've spilled gravy on my face and pillow.
I'm a mess.

I don't want to watch that.
I know it won't take very long.
I know it might make my food taste better
And boy the stars are pretty once you get to see them.

Installing the merry-go-round in my room was a good idea
And you're an angel for pushing me,
But it makes watching TV hard.

It's okay. I can go this fast. I'm fine.



Trisha informs me I'm walking wrong.
Too much sunshine between my legs . . .
"Do you even wear shoes?" she accuses,
Full of irritation and resignation.

I fall on the floor, sorting the newspapers
Before I burn down her studio.

"I get paid half of what you do,
So just leave me alone." I sigh,
I cry, and I pour the gasoline.



The star basketball player just confided in me that he was abused
And we filed a protection order for in the school's office.
Dad gets really drunk Sunday nights, so Mr. B-ball hides on Monday
Throughout the school building and now they can't tell Dad where.

Leaving the office, he wants to walk arm-in-arm,
A bold move for two friends in high school.

The trumpet club is in trouble
For hanging out in the hallway.
When the assistant principal, high on power,
Spots me and Mr. B-ball, I pretend to faint.
She sees through me. When she leans over me,
I grab her scarf to block the spotlight she shines in my eyes,
Trying to avoid a one-way trip to Migraine City.

Later, in the bathroom, I notice that my face has changed.
I am thin, but not really gaunt --
My mouth stretches wider than ever, but is not offensive.
My chin and cheeks are ghostly remains of a cherubic beginning.


Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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