My year begins and ends on February 6th. I see that now.
Rebuilt anew. Cigarettes are involved.
On the porch I breath.
The waves of cars crash on Benjamin Franklin into my ear. The corner taco stand cleans metallic bowls, moves crates of empty bottles into truck beds, unhinges it shelter and disappears before dark.
My white deck chairs are as gray with the city's endeavors as my fingernails. I droop into one with the fullest intention of smudging and convalescing.
The sun sinks behind the mountains in the vanilla sky of smog and the mountains sink too. Slower, though. The night moves with more patience. A man across-the-way stands in pajamas by hanging sheets and children's clothing, cage free on the roof.
Horns honk and the phone rings. The dog below vocally disapproves.
Day three of a new year.
