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The routine flicking spark lights my end, illuminating only itself. Thick exhales on sick minds rendezvous down the block.
My neighbor baseball players piss towards me on the weekends, In the dark. The girl across the street is dating a man in a skirt. Another wears little clothes scampering thrice
daily between his home and his lover’s.
I bob my head to my rhythm, syncopate with my indifference. I am tired of think---maybe
I’m the overseer of Brink.
In the thaw, tumbleweeds made of aluminum and corporate greed signify my semester’s volta. A long black hair
Joint on the Porch, Brinkerhoff
Luke De Jager
