"Why is it that I can only remember the stuff that's on TV?
And never the shit that really happens?" I ask Tom.

The shuttle explodes a millon times, trailing streams of shrapnel;
the Nimitz freeway collapses a thousand.

When we got home to Los Altos, we studied the fire again on TV.
Mark had left on Friday in a peculiar, beaten rage,
blasting down the driveway on the Harley with the loud pipes.
Tom and I didn't know what to say to each other
when we were back in the living room.
It was hot, and we didn't bother to switch on the fan.

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