Never Mind

Ten a.m. Friday morning you drive through Manhattan like it's yours and you do not realize until later that it is. A haze spreads over Lego pieced buildings as you span the bridge. The car plays CDs: everything is ten years ago and winter. 

We arrived at the old wooden house at the foot of the mountains much later than we thought, but who cares, we're here on vacation. You get drunk much too early but cannot will yourself to sleep. There are stars in the skies and in your eyes, what is there to do. I go outside to smoke, and it is so quiet that I can hear the cigarette paper crackle as it burns. I would play this violin if it wasn't so damn small. It seems there must be a better alternative. You know what I'm saying so I won't say it out loud; it screams enough in my ear drum as it is. I wonder if it's ringing in yours. 

Tomorrow morning there will be country brunch and child's play. I promise to laugh in the appropriate pauses. I will drive the car wherever you tell me. It's a beautiful bedroom. 

I just don't fill it so well, on my own.