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Faculty Parking Apocalypse Faculty rustle through the gutters, scrounging for walnuts, windbreakers stuffed, picking their way over rusted fence, fearless of lockjaw, ignoring the young squatter under the rotten shed. Some of the older faculty poke under the bunched-up leaves furtively, feigning a check of tire pressure. Next year there’ll be no reserved parking for you, so you’d better be wary, sly, subtle. And shouldn’t I be hoarding green walnut hulls, at least, for the dye? Ink culled from sideyards, roadkill quills. Though when stores close down for lack of stock, so will the Post Office, phones and fax— why couldn’t someone resuscitate the Pony Express? Because horses are lunch. See the lean muscles roasting over a fire the mail sacks kindled? The heart on a sharp green stick? 19 HadawayRevisedPages 8/15/06 3:09 PM Page 19 ...

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