I’m swallowing the beans of a Taco Bell enchilada when the nausea sets in. Pausing, I glance at the table where yellow processed cheese congeals on 99 cent nachos. I sit back and take a break from eating.
Across from me, dwarfed in the mustard-colored booth sits my six year old son, Jeb. He eagerly devours his bean and cheese burrito, the refried sludge smearing on his chin. Seated beside him is his father, Rex, dressed in an orange sweater and distressed jeans. He, too, readily eats his assortment of pseudo-mexican food spread on the brown plastic tray before him. Read more
The Outing
You’ve exercised
communed in nature
done your writing drafts
posted to your blog
you’re in the haven of space you’ve been craving
your six-year old is gone for the night
its time to exit the house this evening
but all your girlfriends are married
the men you know are out of range
you dress to go to the post office
where your box is empty
you can’t go home just yet
last stop, the dreaded bakery
where you know all resources have been exhausted
and you are in a very sorry state
another soul much in the same duress is there
that intense poet with the long hair
and undying crush on you
he is enthused you are without child tonight
asks you if you’d care to join him for a drink next door
having nothing but an empty home awaiting you
you acquiesce
and toast
Patron margaritas, salt, on the rocks Read more
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