A SELECTION FROM HIS UPCOMING POETRY COLLECTION FROM MORAN PRESS LOVE AND QUARTERS
Car Crash Columnists
She’s selling sanctuary as always, and I’m walking through the fish market at seven o’clock in the morning.
And I’m almost 40, and I’m still the child who thinks that this is where the forces of evil get together to discuss sainthood, swap baby pictures, and complain about the metro line.
I’d rather be uncomfortable, sore, sweating in the winter, dreaming of the way the California spring feels on the skin of a younger man, and too cautious around the people who are determined to follow me into the future.
I’d rather have my dance card punched, scratched, and amused by all of those things, than stay in the house with those people.
The wife was a friend of my brother’s girlfriend, and we often met for drinks by accident at around four a.m. most days.
We were restless for different reasons, and I guess that was all I needed to make her someone I could trust enough to stay with, until I’m pretty sure I can show my worry lines and other facial tics in town again.
It wasn’t like the old days. I’m no longer very good at meeting surprises, or people who look like people I knew the last time I was in the hospital.
I’ve lost a lot of enthusiasm for all of the times I’ve had to find ways to get up the courage to leave, or maintain the courage necessary when they throw me out.
I’m getting up early, bothering the stupid skylines that live in the moisture of weather like this.
I’m working on excuses to leave. I’m thinking of Greyhounds that pass through the kind of towns that are drowning in failed wine museums.