The thunderheads an azure that doesn’t let go. The bruise across the top of the foot from the shoelace tied just too tight. Who says afghan and means blanket anymore? I only see the world from the p.o.v. of the sausage filling. I am the big kielbasa. The bubbles of the Coca Cola skating up the inside of the glass. Condensation going the other direction and puddling on fake tortoise-shell of tabletop. The waitress stopping by every five minutes calls everybody, “Darling.” Her mouth, the dark of night that starts before the tunnel of workday can blow me a kiss goodbye.