(no subject)

Weather’s broken open & there’s that sliver of aggression to the wind, that business. Grabs you by the shoulder, pulls you back & around, looks you in the eye. “That’s me. That wind, with the bit of rain in it.” That’s what the sky says. Staring.

The older man’s hands don’t work – he tells me. I just feel bad. It could happen to me, I think, and then try not to think about it. What would it be if I didn’t have these keys to make go click-clack? Not a good thing, a bad one. Something I don’t want to think on or consider.

They say that man’s pretty tall, they didn’t notice at first, with him standing next to me.

There are flowers all over the neighborhood & I don’t want to be elsewhere. I miss it, when I’m away, when I’m here at work. The neighborhood is in turmoil.
My bar is gone & the frozen yogurt place was unexpectedly closed. There’s the new craft store & maybe I did sign up for two people to make leather wallets this weekend, for $100 a person. I just want my neighborhood to prosper. My bar is gone, and I still can’t really face it – that that happened.

I’ve had more first dates than I can count that happened at that place. Once I watched tower 7 collapse there. Once. And now that’s not a thing for me. Just a bar, but you feel your life snatched away bit by bit – hungry old monster that’s what time is. Old man’s hands don’t work anymore. Could you imagine? You’ll have to because it will, could, might be true, come true- worst fears realized.

That’s the sky, bracing you now, overcast & meanspirited. It riles up the nihilism & you’re left there thinking – What’ll I do, or can I do?

I wanna see bright lights in the late night & hear music that is sad & hear people that are happy & have them all around and not see me. I think. You know, it’s never clear what it is that’ll fix you.