| An early morning newly passed. Thin gray light. The sun is vague behind the overcast. The world is wet and dark. This car is parked, but I won’t come out. I’m rigid in the driver’s seat. The carpet flush against my feet, and the wheel in my hands. Only just woke up. Now here I am. Sleep was a blink, breakfast a bite. I left without an appettite. Up and at ‘em. I’m looking out the windshield. The car is dank and cold. The canvas top peeling and dimpled. Stained and torn. The luxury frayed and worn. The leather is getting old. It’s chaffed, and when the rain gets in, it rubs off in my hands. Leaves black smudges that won’t come out, like fine volcanic sand. The leather’s getting old; the weather’s getting bold, and somewhere deep inside the vents there slowly grows a mould. I’m smelling it. My coat is much too bulky, but I’m wearing it. The orange juice and toothpaste linger in my mouth. It’s bitter, but I’m tasting it. The music goes from bar to bar, buffering me inside my car. The speakers rattle like a jar, but I’m hardly hearing it. Got to think. Got to think. Breakfast was a bite, sleep was a blink. I only just woke up, and now I’ve got to think. I’m clothed, combed. I’m sitting here alone along the oily road. Nodding off and on . . . off and on again. Up and at ‘em. Up an atom. This car is parked, but I won’t come out. These doors are locked; they lock you out. |