Halfway Down the Block
I ran into you on the way to nowhere, the usual bone dry waterhole with no one around and nowhere to go, everybody’s either in lockdown — obedient, you know — or they’ve vanished into a different nowhere all together, couldn’t even turn into dust in this place, where the ground is yellowing concrete, the walls are closing in, barbwire and watchtowers poking a sky made of hazy gray concrete, the only sound is the swooshing wind, dispersing whatever dust is left from the smokestacks and traffic fumes, the screaming chainsaws, the neighbors’ AC. On the road, I could have run into you on my way to the car, now it’s just billions of car skeletons tossed around on a concrete coated earth, tires deflated, paint jobs fading, ripped upholstery — habitat for rats if any survive without humanity to feed them its food scraps
But if anyone asks, I’d have to concede that I didn’t run into you at all, impossible, you know, if you believe what they say about what’s real, and you make damn sure to pretend you believe so they don’t cancel you or put you away. So okay, I admit, I didn’t run into you, I only caught a glimpse of you at the end of the block, you were ambling toward me, a light smile of recognition on your face, the sun twinkling in your eyeglasses in defiance of the gray haze, the air is forever balmy, your hair falling on your forehead, the way you sail over the concrete in your light beige shorts, a dark gray T-shirt tucked in under a slightly crumpled cotton shirt, sky blue stripes, sleeves folded up, Birkenstocks on your feet, the golden skin of your arms and legs, you always smell so good. We will hug later. I miss you already, even knowing I’m going to meet you halfway down the block, coming home from nowhere, going nowhere, the swooshing winds carrying you around the globe. I’m so broken up missing you, I could shatter to pieces, water the cruel ground with my tears, maybe something will start growing through the heavy concrete
