summer

another midwestern summer’s night

it’s six thirty and the sun is still
high on this fourth day of summer. my
brains bake with little water and more
bourbon and an oven at four fifty with
a homemade pizza circular, stationary,
bubbling.

I sweat, type. I
cook, thinking about ice sheets, and dream
of a self, dull blade in hand,
shearing off the tops to fill my glass
and spreading my breath;
a dense fog, wafting
glacious and slowly filling a
porous
purpose.

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creamsicle

a waitress tapped me on the shoulder and
handed me a business card with a hand
written number. “it’s from the girl behind
us.” I look over, there are a few. “which one?”
“the blonde.” she is spotlight. I was gettin

on good with my honey colored neat and
words flowin in my crimson notebook but
everything screeched to halt. her high cheek
bones
lifted with a smile. I nodded to her and
raised my glass. I enjoy a

forward woman. a rare item that
should be collected in a dusty museum and
all the men in town head down to see, taking
pictures in disbelief. my eyes still on
her and that airy creamsicle top she has
on. my goodness, this beauty has

no idea what frustration and heartbreak
she has
comin. poor girl. pocket her
card, put notebook in back of pants, grab
drink

and head on over for dessert.