Monday afternoons at the bar, these days you eke gratitude out of arriving early when all is quiet and your dim corner is unfettered by the stakes of others. The bartender pours my drink as I walk in the door, she stumbles over her Spanish to a softspoken older lady at the bar, I think of travel and making one's way through conversation blindly, how each corner turned is a revelation. I've been stuck on this street corner too long. (I've stuck myself there.)
Someone died on the block this weekend; his friends gather every day, drinking Hennessy and lighting candles, holding vigils. A few pitbulls linger, lazily. I pass them at all hours and feel only love; what a strange thing it is to die. Do you know, we have such little time, why would we drag it out, why wouldn't we do all the things as soon as possible, why would we take time to think about it. A manuscript lies under my elbow, waiting its turn. Why would I let it wait any longer?
October is a blessing,
but it sure disguises itself well.
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