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There's this picnic table I know of that lives by the side of the interstate
fifteen feet from the shoulder in the middle of a patch of grass bounded
by concrete on one side, forest on another and a steep hill to the third,
with just enough space to park your hatchback without intruding on traffic
and with the dirtiest umbrella you've ever seen blocking out a sun that
you couldn't really see anyway unless you were nine feet tall and limber.

The sign screwed to the umbrella pole said "Connie Vanderson Memorial Park"
until it was selectively vandalized, and there's about as much to do there
as there is to do anywhere else within driving distance of Destiny, Maryland
on a Saturday night that only costs for gas and cigarettes. Sometimes you get
blinded by the traffic and sometimes your ass hurts from the old wood,
but the cable's out, the kids are asleep and my keys are digging into my leg.

Take the six-pack from the fridge and the cigarettes from my coat;
It's Saturday night and I've got absolutely nothing to show you.

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