And on the seventh day we wandered into

obesity. You wouldn’t stop bleeding soda

pop from a paper cut on your index finger.

A toothless man gave us a city map made

entirely of Milk Duds. Our stomachs hummed

with what could only be described as a Sleepy

Congress. Vultures circled us as if we were

already decomposing. And we were.

In my finest pair of blue jeans, I win the

lottery. You give me everyone else’s face on

your deathbed. “No news is good news,”

you say. But you want to say more. You want

to say things that bring to mind only rain.

I check my watch, my piggy bank, and the

weather channel before responding. 

As a way to fall in love again you join a co-ed

softball team as a mascot. Your hairy body in

a hairy costume every Tuesday of Summer.

People’s faces in the dugout map the holy

places you read about as a teenager. It’s

always the beginning and everything has

changed. During the 5th inning, you dance

your way into the souls of an entire

generation in the industrial part of town

where the sky loses every time.