this is why we die.
the water empties from the spigot,
and he splashes his faces with the gift of being.
he considers 2005 and the dark street corners
and how he answered the phone those first dull days.
how he told the cops that he was just walking home.
how he signed the emails “thank you, goodbye.”
the dirt in the kitchen and the sad cockroaches in the kitchen.
the shuffling from the bed to the bathroom back to the bed.
but oh! the pair of shoes hanging from the telephone
pole reminded him every full moon that there was someone
walking around without shoes. the flyers were useless and
the shoes were still there when he moved back to minnesota
later that winter.
he would bowl in his mother’s pumps. count the x’s
on the screen. the idiots with the beer mugs called it
luck but he knew it was a gift from a supernatural being.
it wasn’t the pumps, neither. he just liked wearing ‘em.
that his mother hated bowling was something everyone
in duluth knew and talked about whenever he came around.
sippin a diet cola and scratchin the razor burns on his legs
with great fury and anger.
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