sat myself outside. red steps. back against a closed door. cigarette. Jack Daniel’s. music still bumping, catching a row of bikes parked against the fairground fence.

and what was on my mind…

6:25, here’s how the air feels on a perfect day, taste of a willow tree. sun at a lower level, some 71 degrees. plane in the sky, coat tailing a banner for Cats Karaoke and the pilot can’t see it, but she’s not paid to care, it’s only me. seagull flying past, wondering who’s going to be looking up at this bird anytime soon. pedestrians with canes. so many limps, so exactly how damaged is everyone in this city? pregnant woman nursing a Diet Coke. stroller for the next cycle, mother and ambulating child both with headphones, passing on wisdom from one ear to the next. gospel kicking around. seven bike riders in a row, and one more without foot traffic, then i get my wish. turns out my hope is too dirty for destiny to allow, so instead a waiter, fresh off his shift at Santa Fe, takes long strides to make it through the pride just a little faster. cat crawls by. stares at me as though i forgot to buy him a drink. but i can’t be bothered, because the blonde trailing two steps behind her boyfriend pauses to send me a smile, causing the sun to dim for just one second; did the world just end? maybe not, because now a pair of gray horses go past, off the beaten track, no numbers or odds, can’t beat the spread, two officers atop, both women, smiling behind tinted rims. a single stoic senior walking along with bulging garbage bags. some kind of story bundled up inside them. and the patrolman leads with his badge. tells the kids slinging ice cold water, only one dollar to beat it from the  streets, points west and east, because, let’s face it, that’s what they do best. then i stare at a pair of compact shorts, bent over, jeans that whisper hello somehow louder than the tattered music of a closing act. and speaking of which, foot traffic is speeding up, survivors with chairs all coiled, slung over sunburned backs. packing it in before the headliners make headlines, making minds invent their excuse, why show when you can’t even prove? and i feel like royalty, because to them living seven steps from Jazz Fest is like Beverly Hills, though next month ain’t necessarily booked and even the mosquitoes won’t bother with what’s already been spent. it’s going to grow quiet soon. this is just a drill. day one winds down like a circular slide, and inside Kiki’s taking a nap from the noise, while our imaginary girlfriend is barely one mile away, barely thinking of us anymore, wondering why a table of tourists can’t stop drinking water, ordering nothing, sharing spreadsheets under the glare of last call.

and all i can think of, as the wind makes plants nod in tempered measures and sends the city into a never always coma, is how tired i am, how stuck i’ve been, pretending to pretend, again and again, that there are people i don’t think about and love when i’m sitting, facing north.

# # #

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so long and thanks for all the pish.