Wreck

Sometimes I get so sad, and I don't know why. Melancholy drapes across me like a blanket weighted with day old rainwater from crosswalk puddles. If this description seems precise, it is because I have had a lot of time to think about it. The bartender scribbles notes at the end of the bar, a cup of tea by her side, perhaps we are all trying to be somebody. Did you know you cannot erase your problems with the naked bodies of people you do not love? They only scuff their edges against your grating skin, you sit on subway trains with bowfuls of empty in the middle of the night and try to sift them for morsels of purpose. You cannot fill the bowls with the touches of people who do not love you. But you're on the express train now, you're no longer sure how to stop.

I went to the bar after work, perhaps I should be more mindful of my health but there's this novel tapping on my shoulder at all hours, there's this sense of impending death leaning over my brow when I wake, perhaps it's only fall with the wet blanket again, I should be used to this routine by now. The bar gets busy. You want a moment's rest. The novel stirs at your side again.


The only answer is work. You couldn't be more grateful for the gift.