Colorado rains come at 4 o’clock on back and front porches. Clove cigarettes, notebooks, the right kind of pens–you scrape yourself up off the basement floor and pack yourself in cut-offs and thrift store tanks.
This is no place for mountain green. Down here you walk dust over rail road ties, set your scalp out to broil at noon, snort factory farts like French perfume.
The day after you crash the car, you cut yourself at work and lose it in the boss’s office. This is what annihilation feels like.
Sisyphus is your role model.
When the rains come on Tuesday you stay in and roll a joint. Call your brother. He isn’t home or his phone is disconnected. You remember the Bobwhites with their nervous tucked-in heads. You remember their knife-sharp whistle. The way they fell from trees.
Wednesday you take a lunch break that doesn’t end. In the basement you load a backpack–clove cigarettes, notebooks, the right kind of pens, cut-offs, and thrift store tanks. A pair of rubber shoes that flap when you walk.
Dear Sweetie, you write. Happy Anniversary.