Thursday November 14, 2019
A broken orange crayon making marmalade on the dusty sidewalk.
Crows cawing all the way to high heaven at sundown. Coffee and a cigarette
on the corner of Main Street with the bakery and the bank. Seasons in slow motion, like rolling a piece of gum between your fingers. Gets less and less sticky.
That’s where I’ll be. With the God forsaken, the brave,
the most ordinary. With the obese, the obtuse, the downtrodden, the real.
Washing dishes for fifty bucks a night and a good meal at Al’s Place,
Loretta hosts karaoke on Saturday’s and I sing along to every song I know,
scraping ketchup and chicken pot pie crusts off thick white plates,
sometimes eating a fry or chicken finger if it’s clear they haven’t been touched.