HE WAS WAITING AT HOME FOR HIS LITTLE GIRL TO FINISH SCHOOL, AND WHILE HE WAITED, THERE IT WAS, THE DIRTY PINK BAG, TIED UP WITH BLUE ROPE.  A WEEK AGO HE'D GONE OUT IN THE CAR TO GET AWAY FROM THE TELEVISION, AND NOW THERE IT WAS ON HIS SIXTY CHANNEL TV, THE SAME THING HE'D SEEN ON THE ROADSIDE.

HE FLICKED THE SOUND UP.  "THE BAG COULD HAVE ANYTHING IN IT.  SOMETHING CRUSHED-UP, A DOG'S HEAD, A GIRL, ANYTHING....".  THE BAG HAD BEEN TAKEN OFF IT'S SQUARE METAL SHAFT, AND PLACED ON A GREEN CANVAS STRETCHER, POKING OUT OF THE BACK OF AN AMBULANCE.  HIS FINGER SLID ON THE REMOTE AND HE LOST THE CHANNEL.  HE WENT UP AND DOWN FROM ONE TO SIXTY, THROUGH THE BLOCKED CHANNELS OF THIRTY-NINE TO FIFTY-FIVE, AND ROUND AGAIN, NOTHING.  THE BAG WAS GONE.  BUT IT WAS STUCK THERE INSIDE HIS HEAD LIKE ALL THE SONGS HIS SIX YEAR OLD KNEW ALL THE WORDS TO.

HE WENT TO THE SINK AND PUT FRESH BEER IN THIS WIFE'S COFFEE MUG; POURED FROM A THIRD TAP CONNECTED TO A BARREL UNDER THE SINK.  HE FIXED A SNACK OF LITTLE HOUSE SOUP, SWALLOWED A COUPLE OF POTATO HOMES, AND GAZED OUT THE WINDOW.  CRUNCHED-UP PETALS LAY ACROSS ON THE BROWN LAWN.  ONCE INFESTED WITH SNAILS AND BUGS, HE RAZED THE GRASS WITH PARRAFIN, AND NOW THE GRASS WAS STILL ALMOST ALL-BUT-BURNT.  IT WAS LIKE THE SUN HAD COME JUST A LITTLE TOO CLOSE.

UNDER THE GARDEN'S ONE TREE, HUNG AN ORANGE SWING WITH BLUE ROPE.  THERE WAS NOTHING GOING ON.  NO BIRDS, JUST AN ORNAMENTAL STONE DUCK, NO SONG, JUST A FAR OFF HAMMERING, AND NO GIRL, JUST THE BAG.  IT WAS UP THERE BEHIND HIS EYES, MOUTH AND EARS.  UNDER HIS HAIR, HOLDING ALL THOSE THINGS IT COULD HAVE BEEN, SOMETHING CRUSHED-UP, A DOG'S HEAD, A KID'S SONG, HIS DAUGHTER, HIS WIFE, EVERYTHING.