Day Ten: ‘Last Night Here’

April 12, 2015

Note: Written in June 2014, as the frigid, foggy roads of my future bloomed before me.

Drive to the Victorian village for tea and company.
The triangles there point tomorrow here
within the sky. You get coffee, so I get coffee,
then get nervous, then I don’t drink it.
You say you feel your faith slipping away,
a come-back-to-Jesus moment perhaps on the menu
five years out. My silence tells my side,
the cafeteria Catholicism that once was
bright, now burned out. The drive home and the pigeon
hits the windshield with a thump, then a sick thud
on the shoulder. I see the wing trembling and bend
to the pavement. The scream inside the car
while still marveling at the majestic green of summer.
Get home to see the boxes still half-packed,
the power strips, the pens, the spiral notebooks.
Graduate studies await, and I’ve gotta take a piss.


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