Junkyard Post One Week Four

Sitting at the bar by the aqueduct, I watch the bartender throw a stick to a sheepdog while listening to my professor discuss abstractions in poetry. While the dog runs down the street, I hear a car honk and the students beside me laugh at something said. I’ve missed it, so I turn back to them, just in time to listen to the girl across the table, with ombre hair, read her piece about her father. The baby a couple of tables away cries against her mother, purple dress bunching at the stomach and I wish my mother could still hold me.