Dear Friend

I did not do good today

Photo by Devin Avery on Unsplash.

Dear friend. I know it was not good the way I composed myself today. But I am tired of being good. And what is good in a world so mad? Sometimes I climb to the top of a building just to say I been there. Then, later, looking out from the far edge of the city, I point, and whisper, just loud enough to hear, I been there, and for a moment I feel I done something magnificent.

I’m sorry I was not a better man today. It’s been ash in my mouth. You might be my only real friend in all the world, hey? Sometimes I stand close to the edge of the top of one of those buildings and look over the lights jutting in and out like black eyes and broken glass, and think it could be easy, just a few degrees in the right direction, and no one would miss me.

But I think you might.

But that’s the funny thing with being thinking about it and not knowing, hey? You just don’t. Know. Now I’m ’lone in my kitchen feeling like a bowl of peppers and I wonder why my head seems so much like making sense but my body’s scattered all over the yard. It’s like my head knows and accepted, but my arms and feet and shoulders haven’t accepted yet, that

I was no good today. And when I look back it feels so long ago, like barrels of whiskey, set in a rickhouse. Cold and dark, lights shut out, and I’m waiting for something…