there is a sadness inside of me , that not even the warmth of my husband’s sleeping back can simmer . a cold fire, stoked by the nostalgic storefronts I took an accidental detour past. Skirting the dashed line between me and certain injury or death as i stare at the fleeting signs of old and new mexicanamericana. Old, save for strange signs of life, like a group of children wearing backpacks in the grass across the street; modern cars. I see a dusty looking market with the words “Evergreen Market” painted across with huge whimsical serifs, nothing you would see in Clovis, nothing yet gentrified. ungraspable by my anxious and groping whiteness. The sign was pale with age. I thought of my Papa Dan… dark skinned, painting that sign. An athlete, and an artist. Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme by Simon and Garfunkel was the rude and brutal offering Apple Music gave me at this time. By the time I turned onto our street off of Elm, with the refrain “she was once a true love of mine” I wanted to off myself