I keep grinding my teeth. Is that a thing?
I just paid 4 dollars and forty-nine cents for a can of vegetarian refried beans–is that a thing?
I want to live my life over. Is that a thing?
I don’t want to go to the Scott Joplin concert, is that a thing?
The thing is, I cannot keep asking other people about my “things.” They aren’t listening half the time anyway.

Just like you: You aren’t listening either, are you?
That’s right. You’re thinking about your things.

There is too much to consider when you want to say “Hi” or “Call me so and so.”
Taking that next extra step in breaking a barrier is such a delicate thing. Wait; a delicate barrier? Are you kidding me? If a barrier is delicate than just push it over and say “Hi, call me so and so.”
But what about their barrier? Do they have one? Most likely. This what I ask myself every time I go to the old man behind the counter. He’s cute and old and I want to be his friend, for some reason. I have friends but not him, as a friend. I want him.
“Hi,” I tell him after he gives me back my debit card. “Call me so and so.”
But he says nothing back, just grunts and gives me back my card. I don’t know what to call him.
Or to make of myself.

I looked through the window. It was a window that did not belong to me and therefore I had to look through it rather than be inside it, in the bedroom, with them.
I felt nervous, because I knew them. To watch them making love was a violation I knew. But I could see how much they loved each other. It was wrong, me watching.
But the love I watched was not.

The robins fought in the backyard. I watched from my window and hoped they would give up, forget about who was winning, and just go about their business.
But they just kept leaping into the air, their wings beating at each other, their beaks jabbing. I covered my eyes. Or rather someone covered my eyes for me.
“Stop looking,” he told me.
“Well you’ve got that taken care of,” I said.
He laughed. And took his hands from my eyes. I turned and saw peace in his eyes and on his face. It was a nice place to be, rather than looking out there.

The powers-that-be shone through the night, a beacon for us weary desk-mongerers who sifted through Outlook for shreds of hope.
Then we just rebooted ourselves. We went home, showered, ate with our families and started up again.
It’s nice when hope visits. Or when you find it hiding in your shoes. Hope has marred the dreary and desolate work–the work that never gets done.
I hope I marry hope. I really hope so.

If it rains, my dress will be ruined. But I won’t be able to get to the party. I know these items are easily solved. But sometimes I just like to sit in a problem.
And soak in it.

No one is calling you. Because no on knows you’re here.
You have to call someone to let them know where you are. Call them now.
“Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“Where?”
You hang up before telling them. Well, now, maybe they’ll call you back.
They do.
“I’m in the park.”
“I’ll come get you.”
“Thank you.”
You hang up. Your impulse is to leave the park. But you hold onto the bench, praying you don’t leave.

They met under the palm tree. The sunlight danced along the sand, under their feet. They laughed. They cried. For this was their last day together. She wanted more time. He wanted to marry her and take her away, to another island.
But they could not. They wanted to. But they could not. Their were too many obligations. Children. Jobs. Life. Their time together held this all together, allowed them to continue on. This memory, under the palm tree, here at the beach would allow them to go on.
Until the next time they met.

You’re a good kid. I watched you grow up and you felt the need to show off and that was a good thing. You provided endless hours of entertainment.
Now you are married, with children. Now your children are showing off.
More entertainment.

I won’t run after you. Mainly because I am not fast enough. I’ve trained in the past, for you. But the gain is so fleeting. For I can speed up and catch up to you. But what’s the point? By the time I catch up to you, I am too tired to talk to you.
Not that you’re interested in what I have to say. You claim you are. You remember that I don’t like wicker. You repeat my one-time phrase of “Baderp, baderp.”

My legs are cramping. Sorry, I know we might be on the verge of something Big but I’m clutching my chest and I stumble off into the bushes.
I am now alone and feel grateful. At least now I can catch my breath and think of an alternative to you.

There’s always masturbation, there, in the bushes. It’s easier this way, pleasuring myself, believe me, no matter what the experts say. Being alone with pleasure is better because it happens sooner and it takes less effort.
“You are so lazy,” someone says as they run by me. They run by so fast, so you can’t see who exactly has called you lazy.

So you laugh and point at them. Off they run, to please others.
Good luck, you call back.
They can’t hear you. They are listening to their music.