A Matador Buys Some Fine China

I have a friend who says the kind of love that matters is walking into a china shop
with a two by four; and when the employee asks if he can help us, ‘No’, we’ll say. ‘We can help you though’.

And whenever I think of making this city a playground I think of you.

I think of playing ding-dong ditch at the neighbor’s house, hoping he doesn’t own a gun. I think of lying in bed all day watching the movie of every last thing we haven’t done; eating lettuce sandwiches out of each other’s unpaid tax money; reading obnoxious placards in art galleries with an Austrian accent; feigning dead man’s float in a borrowed pool, waiting to see who’ll rescue us.

And when the universe in the ICU gets so cold and cruel that it blathers on like a baby, I want us to break into swimming pools at night and have water fights until they throw us to the curb.

Picture two children traipsing through the streets in diapers, waddling between the cracks in the sidewalks, popping wheelies like

‘I’ll race you to the bridge’!

Let’s lose our appetites so someone else can find them.

Let’s visit emergency rooms just to say hello, so they know we don’t only visit when things are bad.

Let’s tell them they haven’t invented a pill for this feeling yet.

It’s like coming upon a piece of fruit in the snow and
placing it above your mantel piece –
not out of respect or anything, but
because you just don’t feel hungry anymore.

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