We have made plans to meet Friday night. It will be our second official date. We are going to a movie at Westlake. At dusk, after we get off the phone, after I tell
Renae to close her eyes and ask if she can feel my lips brushing against the
top of her forehead, after I (still, to my parents dismay) brew a cup of coffee
and toss my school books on my bed, placing on of the CDs that Bob and Frank
gave me into the ajar mouth of the Stereo, trying to refrain from jumping every
time a light switches on illuminating the square in the house next door, I go
outside, past the cement steps where I wait for the progenitors of my date to
pick me up, nursing a freshly brewed cup of jamoke, lost in the heaviness of
the season, sometimes leaving the yard, walking the same path I take very
morning as I waltzed with a stuff bag like a town priory delivering tightly
scrolled articles informing neighbors
what is happening on the forehead of the planet today. I think about Renae and the chance I somehow
have another shot to go to the place I have been denied while walking east, towards Sterling avenue
and St. Marys cemetery taking intermittent swigs of my coffee, thinking that I
have another chance.
The autumn sun is heavy and plummets in a flared
screech of peach the moment it hits the west. It looks like somehow poured
gasoline on a tangerine nerf ball and then committed arson.
Seconds before the sun sets it paints the sky with a
transitory orange, collapsing into rose and lavender before saying goodbye, all
this while, due primarily to the imprisonment of gravity turning its head as if
daily scorning its lover, its source of life.
That life has somehow arrived.
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