Spotted. Tags. Not the kinds you see on that silk Bloomingdales blouse or around the necks of our pink tie-dyed poodles. No. These tags are far less desirable. They are the tags completely unnoticed next to that disgusting couple lip locking their good byes. They label the accessories of the fanny pack wearing dads, red-eyed college bound teens, island hoppin women. Still can't get a hint? Luggage tags. In and out. Back and Forth. West and East and South and back again. Where will these diamond-stunted tags take b next? West coast? Done. East coast? owned. South bound revisited? Sold. But friends, Utahns and countrymen...no diva is too sensitive to miss a four year casa. Leading music on the raised bed of a shoebox dorm, plush Ogden condo getaways, studying in the hole, dodging rm's, Marshall 5 love, broken hearts, regretable bff hiatuses, 5-mile runs, salad bars, perfect in pink-and better on the field, exclusive Wal-mart shopping extravaganzas, twenty...twenty...twenty.., family members for best friends, best friends become family, grandmas-janitors-rock stars-safari freaks-gutter girls..popcorn, out-of towners, all-night longers, luvsackers, vacationers, stalkers, ditchers..polka dots, chocolate covered cinnamon bears, tears over two years ahead, handing numbers to men in cars, one-man concerts in whitie and gabbie, fake rages, harder-than imagined class work, obama fans for a week, brainwashed in the barlow, Prosser Paradise, one dollar candy, thoughts, kisses, prayers, and change. --How do you summarize four years of bliss? Impossible. But Perfect. Later Utah these tags have a mind of their own.
911 cover-up, your mascara's running.
B.
