bucket of spit

Maybe I'll write like a broken heart today, maybe I'll just go to the dock and sit there. Maybe I'll catch a coppery glimpse of a bluegill. I should go dig up my dead friend, pick the flies from the forehead and have a drink. I should go to the farmers market and watch the airplanes roar and thunder overhead, I always feel like an army ant when I go there, the rats scurry in the parking lot, the big trucks come and go in methodical mazes, intertwined, never an accident, maybe it will spit rain on the windshields.

I should go to the city, watch the ebony colored people melt into the shadows, the ambulances and buzz of wireless phones and the newness of everything complex, the glass buildings and discarded cardboard cut-outs on the benches, the empty milk cartons and cigarette butts. I should go to the freeway, see if any body parts are still there from the wreck, I could duct tape them back together, little arms and legs, maybe I should put them back together, sprinkle some clover over the bruises and smile, I haven't really smiled since then, I haven't talked much either. Maybe I should stop speaking altogether, I'm mostly bitter and unhappy, maybe the dock isn't under water, maybe I'll see a mallard or a barge drifting in the water, maybe I'll walk into a cobweb along the wooded path to get there, maybe I'll get spiders in my hair or be bitten by a viper.

Maybe I should go down to Green Street, maybe the restaurant mansions won't be so busy, maybe an old tree will still be as beautiful as ever, maybe a police car will go zooming by with the lights and sirens on, maybe the post office and all the parcels will be on fire, maybe a stroller or two will be in the road sitting perfectly on the yellow lines, maybe people will call them buggies like they are supposed to, maybe someone on a bicycle will crash, maybe I'll gaze into the café windows at all the people in there eating their fancy bagels and cow juice, smiling and laughing, all wonderful and happy, all dolled up and smelling like mortuary perfume, all woven and etched into this fabric forever, maybe I should just continually pass by completely unnoticed.