The door to the sedan is now open and the keys are in the ignition, setting off an on and off, on and off chiming of reminding repetition. If I pulled the keys, all the noise would cease, but then so would the engine. I could still move forward if I just shut the door, but which side I’ll be on remains in contention.
Now for some reason, God always turns off the heat just when it gets cold outside, and some little kid has already taken all the good warm places to hide. So I stand exposed in the living room judging the internal debate of whether I should drop six bucks on Spice, or is it a waste cause the hour’s so late? (There’s always Baywatch.)
I’ve seen the rows of flowers blossoming in the park. I know that every one of them pushed up from the dark. And my street hasn’t been plowed in weeks, the good times rolled but they got stuck. Everything that is beautiful was once a hole in the muck.
Some might say there’s no excuse for running out of gas at my age. But when you’re getting a free ride, you don’t keep your eye on the fuel gauge. In the back you look out the sides and take it as it comes, and when you’re not throwing up, you’re sitting there rolling your thumbs.