Sunday Wasteland

This day could be crimson leaves if the colors knew their turns, but instead it's crispy chill through crimson stockings. There is light and Southern sky and autumn rushing on. I'm out of the show for half of the afternoon (this is weeks ago, you know, I'm so slow), relishing the bare-arms cool, that no one need call, and the nails in my shoes.

So we meet on the sidewalk and set off for Winn-Dixie. There's glory in the aisles, gentleness in the produce, in this strange sheer of unfamiliar that nearly makes me forget these things are just for sale. He's making chowder, buying clam cans, counting potatoes, investing in cinnamon for spiced wine. I'm drifting and and looking and dreaming for the out-of-doors.

The day is sharp and the land is flat and the sun is cold and wonderful. I'm everyone's little sister, tagalong plaything, matching the décor in the dirty back seat. It's back and forth on the breezeway, up and down on the sidewalk cracks. I'm useless, it's endless, we're counting on a coughing engine and ashing out the windows. Up the elegant stairs and this poor boy's room is empty, but he has books, you see, a few things in the closet, a little bit in the pantry now, and something up his sleeve.

I want to brush up with beauty and come away calm. I'm seeing Taylor Wolf, the slanted creature, his truest, bluest cut-offs, eating whole apples, reading books, getting high and batting his eyelashes. We were damned near close, my boy, but I never could hold on to you. I will dress myself into glorious things, I will take on mid-afternoon adventure, I will tumble into the blankets of the quiet, quiet night.