Glossy hair in tangles, dive bars make pretty girls feel like they’re pop stars. I haven’t been in one in so long, still I feel reverenced; held. Air-dried from the bath, fresh sheets, a pastel blue kind of spring turned burnt-orange-summer outside. My dreams are simple and far away. I wave to them with all the windows open, cry.
I was biting the steering wheel in traffic, back to back, the other morning. When people ask me how it’s going, that’s how it’s been, cavities on 2 and 10.
They say read the greats and the economy’ll get better. In fact nothing gets better, but that’s the lot of it, light the not-in-fact-a-cigarette with a bunch of fragile matches, (seven and a half snapped in the parking lot of my apartment complex), “I don’t mind.” (Like a song or a prayer if you’ve ever begged one, “I don’t mind.”)
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