of forbearance, juggling
bank. Practicing our
personal accounts
in front of a group
of retainers, or, attendants,
divine comedies, brewing
the elements, pausing
to smell our roses
that are suffocating
beneath the wooden
clouds. We notice
$6,000 in the bank.
I’m (therefore) full
of courtesy, curtsy,
and it.
We’re up to 1976:
the Pinto station
wagon (with its
faux wood ex-
terior) and the
long lines at the
gas station. The
attendant is wear-
ing the exact same
sweater I am (well,
not exactly), in the
style of a Jack-in-the-
Box burger with bacon
on ciabatta bread, so
decades must have
disappeared, not-
withstanding the
side streets and
alleyways filled
with beautiful
boys who can’t
afford a box.
We take it
to go. I’m
about to
fall (I
know
this
already).
