The net of things that bring me comfort in these days of nos and missed attempts at improv sets: the Lake Michigan trail, knowing the kids on the other side of that water are in swimsuits at my childhood place, reading S on the sofa, Bisque on the phone and I can imagine him there in that room with the tan carpet and the fan whirring, scooping the almond butter out the jar with a spoon. I stand across the train platform from two classmates headed north while I wait for southbound. It's too far to talk. I watch them bond and feel like Sandra Bullock grabbing onto dumb handles. Who will know me in this wide world!? Rain pitters, like, on cue. But then in a blitzkrieg of texts with my best friend, I am a real boy again! Filled up like a little balloon. Hope floats.
There's a dry gust up on the eleventh floor of the building, the window is half open. Who knows what flies in. But "nothing can be a parasite to you," I listen to the podcast at 5 AM when I have woken up sluggish and out of sorts. I play it loud plugged into the wall across the dark room. I fall sleep free and awake in clear cool light. Go home. Square one.
|South Carolina creperie.|
Rest your head on me, my dear.
It took a world of trouble, took a world of tears.
It took a long time to get back here.