wait for the dishwasher to beep and pour
another oversized cup of water that isn't vodka
and it does once the movie is almost over
so I go out to the kitchen and put dishes
that aren't you in the cupboards and put more
dishes that aren't you in the dishwasher
and turn it on again. Another successful meal.
Okay so maybe going down that alley
as a shortcut wasn't the best possible idea
but there's really nothing to do about it
now except look for something that might
be useful as a weapon in case those footsteps
behind me aren't an echo and if that shadow
isn't mine that knifebite strikeslice darkness
I spent Christmas 2012 almost dead in a hospital
room. By New Year's Eve they'd beaten the infection,
but I needed to relearn how to walk. They transferred
me to a rehab center. My roommate was a cop. Ex-cop,
I assume. He'd been shot through the head. Non-responsive.
He'd never leave that bed again. Everyone knew it.
I still wonder if he wants his nurses to just end it.
You see the thing about these streets in my neighborhood
is you can't get away from the damn potholes. Which ain't
a bad thing ALL the time because at least it means we get
plowed in the winter. Which wasn't always the case, lemme
tell you. We didn't rate before they raised the gas tax.
But it's worth it livin' on a block where the local pizza place
has a 55 gallon smoker out front where they do their ribs.
Animal, vegetable, mineral. There is a fourth.
The doorway in the back hangs open. We don't
comment on this. We slip into the chancel, place
the ouija board on what was once an altar,
surround it with saint-emblazoned drugstore
candles, brass bowls of slow-cooked foods.
We raise our voices. Our voices are not alone.
