Thursday, November 29, 2007

Dirty


You drift through Fu-Wah Mini Market on what I'm guessing is your lunch break, with a look on your face like your dog just died. I want to ask, did your dog just die? That, or you're the everyday hopeless. There are stains all over your brown Dickies and you have workboots on, like some kind of non-professional construction worker. It's a tofu hoagie wait. I know it. I want to wait with you. The air is showered with doubt and a 90% chance of I could be wrong.

I toss my Dirty chips onto the counter. Salt & Vinegar, in a purple package. I always say purple chips. I pull out way too many dollars when I only need one. He asks if I want a bag. The one with the salty carbs in it should do.

"I'm cool, thanks." I leave the store like that, you and your sundry accoutrements splayed before the cash register, me and the things that I really say when I flee a scene.

I smell a trolley in the air and find a corner. I have no qualms with pocketing my desires. I finish peoples sentences when they talk, like I know. I should let you complete.

I play out the preparation of your tofu hoagie in my mind, but it takes too long. Maybe the sandwich is at the stage of being cast in white paper. Money could be changing hands. You're probably fumbling for change. I don't see you come out until you're all up in my crazy insane. There is no real look. You walk up 47th until you become a dot, and then I'm 16 for a second. My dog is dead.

It's the last week of November with yellow yellow trees. Their trunks are a deeper brown than the others, but it makes sense. You're dark inside, and then it goes up.

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