Sitting on the futon, watching a documentary about the Boston Red Sox that seems to be trying to say something larger about American culture, thinking about you.
I anticipate the words on the screen like I anticipate your arrival. Except you aren’t cooperating. And I worry about that in a way that can only be described as unreasonable.
We are on opposing poles, moving toward one another, and one day, you, luminous and strong, will speed by me, and I will catch your scent as you disappear behind me.
I drink as I wait, listening to the voice-over talent and the music up and underneath. I grow disgusted with my gut, heaving between my heavy head and the keyboard.
I wish we were Japanese, bowing to one another with a solemnity we can’t comprehend. I wish we weren’t of this earth. I wish we were two colluding, disruptive, glowing owls.