At night I cool my face with the driveway’s cement, listen to our neighbors argue and then fuck, push my toes into soil and snap the roots of weeds.
At night you snore, roll over, mumble your dreams.
In the morning you don’t ask about the dirt between my toes, the mustard flowers in my hair. I could fly to the East Coast and back, greet you at the breakfast table with a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. I could train a trio of marmots to play the viola, my arms a map of punctures and scratch scabs. As long as I am there to kiss you goodbye at 8:15 a.m., you don’t ask.
Tonight I stand at the mouth of our court, cherry blossoms floating down like snow, like we live somewhere with weather, and I think about the places I haven’t been, the things my body hasn’t done. I stick out my thumb for five slow minutes, but no one stops.
Photo By: Fred Dunn