Weird breezes and flannel on this slow grocery Friday. A sense of uncapturable and inevitable importance,
tempting but easy to ignore.
The subway is kind; all exhausted barely old men with earrings smiling at babies puffy in novemberwear.
These are the afternoons you try to remember.
Always damp, always gray, always around 4. Always begun on subway platforms, pockets bulging. Sitting with schoolbooks on the still-new roof, air electric with nothing, really.
These are the elastic hours, pains you feel you want but don’t really.
This is the price of young skin, the only ticket you’ll ever buy, but the one that matters most
These are the long whiles wasted in restaurant Junkland, divine ol’ kicks from a paper placemat. Always worth the thoughts, always just barely lost, always suckling on the dusty motel snapshot cock of what all this land should be, engorged, necessary.
What is everyone waiting for? What or who is it that we are expecting?