Yeah.
So yeah.
So make time to make time.
Some of these things depend on luck.
If you're going to make it or whatever.
All right.
One more in that vein.
This is a poem that I could read to students
that refers to the--
refers to the R-rated childhood without actually
using those details.
Synecdoche again.
"Game 112."
"The last time I had to wait in those long lines at the DMV
to renew my license, I didn't bring a book or anything.
So I stood in the lines for an hour or two while they
wound through the afternoon."
Yeah, so I don't know if they have that in Arizona.
But maybe just go online, do a digital thing,
and you're out of there.
When California it was just like lines out the building.
Back to the poem.
"So for an hour or two while they
wound through the afternoon watching the people,
including the wild haired man with his small wild
haired daughter.
Who when they finally reached the front of the line was told,
he was waiting in the wrong line.
The woman was sorry, but there's nothing she could do for him.
He turned to us as the clerk put a next window please
sign on the counter with his wild hair
and his little girl's hand in his.
But what are we going to do about it?
Finally, after I filled out a form at the one window
and paid at the other window, and got
near the front of the final line for my picture,
I was clapped on the back by a thick vato,
who appeared out of nowhere.
You don't remember me, do you?
He laughed.
And I vaguely did remember him from years ago.
Not his name, of course.
And I could see he'd been lifting weights in La Pinta.
He could see in my eyes what I was reading
in his and his steely gaze.
That's right.
I remember you man, he said, moving behind me into the line,
and no one bothered to object.
I realized the clerk with the camera was calling my name.
Please remove your glasses, she said.
The guy behind me gave me a friendly shove forward.
Smile, homes, he said.
That's why I look like that on my license."