always missing deadlines

You took the Beach Boys away from me in your car with your cigarette ash flicking off into the traffic behind us. You sang all the words. And you reached out to me with your oldies childhood. I wanted to be along just for the ride. Can’t we find a way for me to be a radio singer, too?

He wasn’t home but you found him going over his notes, practicing for when the opportunity for big speeches came. You interrupted him and all that got out were chuckled embarrassments. Too many drinks were convinced into him leaving space around the midsection for a little arm. You showed some giddiness in the way you sat cross-legged at the high table and talked with a straw just an inch away from your face. This was not about fathers any more than it was about babies. Two for one deals had expired such a long time before that the kid just wasn’t grown enough to be some lover. He was just looking for some time.

If the eight-hundred miles were billable you’d be getting the receipt. If I could separate my legs to solve the problems I would. You said you didn’t have the stomach for those kinds of jokes anymore. I’d already forgotten all about laughing when you drank my beer before leaving.