By Christopher J. Bradley
It is Monday night
And I have awakened from a slumbering nap
To a streak dinner cooked by my sister
And served by my mother.
Everyone waited for me to finish
To sing happy birthday to her boyfriend
And finding myself without appetite due to the warmth of summer
I excused myself for a cigarette.
As I stepped from the front porch onto scraping cement
I recalled that I had spoken with Scott in North Carolina before sleeping
It had been so long
I told him about the Morrissey collection my friend had put together.
He let me know about his car disaster.
So as I watched the seagulls dance against the sky net
Of red orange turning to hues of evening blue
I remembered the packet of Yohimbe Gold of a year ago
That I was going to take to him
To make him smile if for no other reason.
I may have bought it or it may have been the first thing that I have stolen
Since I was five when I tried to get the buttons at the mall for my mother
In any case I was never charged for it and the store keeper must have found his profits
In the turkey sandwich he sold me.
I was lost on a long road toward New York
But that packet in the desert was like manna
A manna I had discovered in a lexicon in Boston
While playing Scrabble with him in a smoked out kitchen
In our small pink house not far from Davis.
That summer we drank Grolsh beer
Watched half a baseball game
Played Chess in Harvard Square
Played Doom against my OS/2 rigged 486
Worked in various offices
And got lost near Newton and the Charles River.
There was a girl at the supermarket
Who liked both of us
I kept imagining ways of impressing her with a mattress
My only piece of acquired furniture
Other than the television set
That only played
The sessions of the Yohimbe Gold cast
Over and over
Until they unleashed Windows