Good Old Daze

Christmas, 2006 / No. 17

A guy can lament being soused all the time best

when soused. Pragmatically burning the playhouse down

daily. Still. A poignant observer.

If slurring. If awake.

Soused after work! Soused all day long!

Wake up in the night convinced of a (treatable) noble insomnia,

then read books from miles of shelves. So many unread books

had a guy yet to own. So many unread books did a guy own.

The living room was like a book city.

Its skyline mainly perfect uncracked spines.

Collecting books with good intentions,

like the light breaking through trees’ branches, leaves—

like light beaming paths into a forest—fighting blindness

with a thirst for words; quaffing beer and hockey replays,

passing out again on the too-short couch.

It’s the et ceteras in life that’ll nail a guy.

Are you impecunious?

No, man. Pecunious. I’m pecunious.

Fine. Let’s go to the bar.

It’s a freezing March night outside. When the wind gusts

I can hear the foolish pigeon who has tried to build her nest

under our deck. The gusts that rattle the kitchen window

force a whimpering cluck out of her.

How do I know it is freezing on the deck?

I’m doing research. I have written a joke.

The punchline (sort of) is the fact that pigeons can’t solve

problems by sitting down breaking bread and discussing them.

Tonight, how wrong I am.

The wind is leading to a major reassessment

as to the location of the nest being built and slept in

by at least two pigeons and perhaps one egg.

Is there time to move?

We could do it.

My strength—it’s not—

We’d be warmer there, out of the wind.

I don’t like to fly after daylight.

It’s not far. Follow me.