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By E. A. Haley

i have never driven by a truck weigh station that has not had a CLOSED sign blocking the exit and i wonder why this is. i think about this on my couch at midday with the television on mute and my coffee cold. they don’t build these things for nothing, is what i think, but then again maybe the purpose of it all really is nothing, like the purpose of desk toys and marigolds poking up through the dirt, and scrolling through instagram on my phone. he calls me and tells me that he keeps leaving things undone. like essays and dirty dishes and laundry that the cat uses to sleep. he tells me all of this and i want to yell at him that he can fix it! but maybe he is CLOSED now. maybe he is waiting for funding or food or his landlord to fix the leaky sink and then, then. i am listening as my mother is taking a hammer to the tin planter on the patio and he is saying how is your day going. my day is going like a comma, is what i want to say. my day is always tomorrow and the next and it never finds a place to stop, is what i want to say. he says everything is CLOSED right now and a week feels like a minute and i nod before i remember that he can’t see me. yes, is what i say and we don’t speak for a long time.

E.A. Haley (She/They) is a playwright, poet, and essayist. At the moment, though, they are probably writing another list of records to buy or recipes to make this week. She has been previously published by Touchstone Literary Magazine and Bureau of Complaint. Follow them on Twitter.

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