We saw the end of the sun some time ago
and I thought about California
and the palm trees that were still eating
and the girls in the sand
and their hair in the wind
and how it didn’t matter to me anymore
where the lightning bugs went
once the days cooled off,
or why old men never died like outlaws
if it’s what we all want.
Born alone.
Legacy always in question.
Life has a way of herding the useless together,
drafting us into a showdown
that began
long before the dead had to
explain their worth.
Bellies up.
No closure.
No kind words left behind
for the kids.
We forgot a long time ago that
the world will keep rolling over
like it always has.
So we laugh at the snoring dogs
shaking their jaws
and running in place,
but now I wonder:
why are they the only ones
who sleep deeply enough
to dream?
I’d been locked up at my
girlfriend’s parents’ house for a week
and all anyone could talk about
was a skunk that lived in the woods.
And every night I’d go outside
and stare into the trees
but I never saw anything.
The sun dropped,
the geese flew south,
and just as I was about to give up
for the last time
a little skunk crawled out from
under the shed.
I jumped up and waved at him
and he looked back as friendly
as any fat and free thing
and neither of us did much more
than that.
But then my girlfriend came
out and screamed.
The skunk looked back like I’d
betrayed him,
and as I watched his tail go up
I felt like I’d broken our bond too.
I knew my girlfriend would get mad if
I said it was her fault
so I cursed at the skunk
cursed at the trees
cursed my name
(never going for the one who deserved it),
hating everyone and everything
in this whole stupid world.
Her mother made lasagna that night.
I left a plate out by the backdoor.
Scott Laudati is the author of Camp Winapooka (Bone Machine, Inc.). Visit him on instagram @scottlaudati