Hot Child in the City
We should go somewhere posh to smoke
our cigarettes & take people’s money.
One of us can cause a diversion while the other
picks pockets. I have to say, I’m attracted
to the idea. Otherwise I am positively inundated
with options for self-description & attendant
corporations hot to sell them back to me. & all my
money’s doing stand-up. & my boss is on my case
again, of course, not to mention my nerves.
But on the phone with Janae I am sufficiently wry
about everything & she laughs at all my jokes.
(She lives in Michigan again & I can imagine.)
Looking around I know there’s nothing particularly
funny about any of this, actually, unless you’re into
that sort of thing: the city’s laggard melt, the piles
of dirty laundry. Mrs. Doubtfire on HBO. A man’s hand
on my jaw but otherwise no identifying features.
& nothing by way of explanation, of course:
you make your own sense or you get used to it, like bad
wallpaper or plumbing in an apartment you can stand
because you know it’s only temporary. When the air conditioner
malfunctions I palm my head & declaim against—who? or, what?
God, I guess, given my upbringing, but even if you don’t believe
you have to admit that life has a tendency to seem
very intentionally almost sentiently bad a lot of the time
or maybe I’m just making bad choices. I guess
some people do seem content. Naturally, I am suspicious
of anyone who seems to have their shit together
or their student loans. Otherwise I lie in bed at night
& imagine my landlord when he’s spending my money.
His face is just a big evil smile emitting maniacal laughter.
He is carless with it, my money, but I can see it
brings him great pleasure to spend. Then it is eight AM
& already it is too hot to go for a walk. I catch the fan’s
breeze & look at my phone. I avoid the app that tells me
how much money’s in my bank account & the one
that tracks my credit score. Other times, I feel so automated
I search myself for a power switch. I know it’s there somewhere
but I never find it.
