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is slightly detained by ice crust of the snow bank. It’s perfectly
imperfect. How did it get there? Whose is it?
I’ll tell you: A large man, hairy and scary and fairly impaired
plucked it from himself in a reflective, philosophical revelation. He gathered his equally introspective baseball brothers
to divulge the lesson;
“This hair is a representation of my chaos,” he declared.
The nodded, agape, eyes glazed and late. The hair remains solitary
because there is no allure in a lesson repeated. Instead, there are other
relics; Natural Light, cigarette butts, bong clouds, pen rips, derogatory terms, die falling and the click-clatatata echoing into my focus. Shirts off. Eyes tracing, predatory.
Drink. Cough. Bump. A visit from a neighbor; charisma and a schvitz