Lunch.
Stoned. Early, waiting
sweet tea looking
NHL finals (chicago and boston) on a
volkswagon TV.
motherboard
birthed others of its kind, each
beaming sport.
Spurs and The Heat
battle on to game 7.
Damnations. Dude shows.
family.
guys like this tick faintly til thier tiny hearts barely explode.
questions, reveal
mine.
desperation, guessing who has the juice. But I sit
in judgement. secure
simple lunch date, repeated
unreturned calls,
once from a different
number to throw
me off.
Uncle Barry. Ahhhh, s'ben a long time kid (Me: '72, He: '69)
reunion, wife number
9 in tow, cow-eyed, still
ignoring the
notion that this whole thing was a huge load of
shit, it was.
Not two weeks already he’s walking
ten steps in front of her.
stopping, waiting. turning. eyebrows, open mouth
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