Almost

One last meal, family-style — no family, and with suspect style. November first, my almost-groom fresh off his flasher costume discharge at the office. Harris tweed. I read it on his antisocial feed. The motel life is all a dream — we were, as they say, living the dream. I appreciate our quandary, hot-plate dates and frowsy laundry. Face tattoos are never a good sign. I hope his tumor is benign. I won’t forget the time he lent me Inches, which I gave up for Lent. Our love was threat, like phantom pain. An almost-plan for a bullet train. I’m weaning myself off graphic tees, not taking on any new disease. I walk along Pier 5 to kill the myth, of course another stab at myth. I pull my output from the shelf and wildly anthologize myself. I’ve adopted another yellow lab. I hope to die inside this cab. My lack of faith is punctuation — no wait, the lack of punctuation. Every intonation, one more pact with injury; my latest one-act: “Flossing in Public.” In the spattered glass of the republic.