Happy Hour

I’m going to be 27 this year. How old do I
feel? 22? 12? 59? What matters is warm
air. The “P” on the parking garage. The
signs that tell us where to go. I’m waiting
or not for you. The half empty beer. Thai Thai on the corner. Their fried dough permeates summer. 6:45 pm. The obscure numbers that make us. A sparrow hunts cigarette butts. A motorcycle drums. I try holding on. Potholes lower than the street’s surface. Dodging whiplash bumps. Some people back their cars into gas pumps. I’ve seen it. Life is cars we damage.
I see those little red spiders. Microscopic twittering legs. Their blood the same color as their skin. How wonderful to be a mirror.

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