finally the facts are faced: the child within will always without.
(i’m so hungover, my fingers keep hitting all the wrong keys.
thank (whoever) for backspace and delete.)
that child within will never be content to sit himself in the quiet corner where,
when i am feeling optimistic, i think to place him.
or maybe he will. (i should not try to write when i am hungover.
the mistakes are legion. in nineteen minutes i have to shower
and get ready for work. i will arrive at the office my customary
three-to-five minutes early, the boss will ask how i am or how my weekend was,
and i will lie. i will say fine. i will not tell him (who in a similar situation would?)
how a good friend of mine left her marijuana and her vodka (along with her cat,
her dog, and her apartment) in my care for the weekend.)
that little bastard (the child within), get him around dope and booze,
he goes for it. he pops right out of that corner where he’s been sitting
(scheming all the while), weird and devilish grin on his face, lights up,
pours out, kicks back and has a high old time. before you know it
(or i know it, or someone knows it, or who knows?), he’s eaten an entire
roast chicken and four cherry turnovers, played with himself (twice),
and stayed up all night watching short video clips and playing games.
he’s back in his corner this morning (went there on his own accord, no fussing,
sweet as the cookies he also polished off by the bagful), happy as whatever
the happiest thing is (a child, perhaps?), undoubtedly planning his next escape.
though his back is to me, i can see him smile. the little shit. he’s left me bloated,
hungover (like i said), in need of exercise and clean blood. and he knows
that although i make him spend almost all his time in that corner, his back
to my world, hearing me bitch about how much i think or believe i need to do,
and how exasperating and distracting and foolish he is, there is no one i love more.
(Copyright 2023 by Tetman Callis.)