Upright.
(Crawling with the stars on a stone wall stretch. Synchronized silhouettes of empty beer cans appear in passing high beams, foreshadowing along dirt road shoulders. I think I can hear laughter in the stables. Soft, blue radiation behind the gentle, irregular shapes. Half asleep, antecedent to the sun.)
I’m searching under the sofa for my favorite pen. It’s silver with blue ink. The tip is slightly bent but words run smooth when they’re willing. A silver Avant Pro.
Spread-eagle and wriggling through tufts of fuzz and runaway pepitas, I pull myself down into the subterranean realm.
Right here, someone sits down above me. The cushions press, pushing couch ribs against my human ribs. Trapped, panicked, followed by a brief cave nap.
Stuck in a lazy crevasse, I take stock of my supplies. There is a half-drunk can of seltzer, once rolling, now standing still from heavy thumb depressions. A Milan Kundera book hiding out, waiting for the tides of cultural relevance to swing back to a bearable focus. A freak ten ninety-nine reminding me that I have to change every gear once I get myself upright. (No more seltzer, no more novels. Just a crisp green visor and real talk from here on out.)
My fingers inch across thighs, searching cloth cavities and finding only receipts, sticks of gum.
Beneath the breast pocket is my flattened breast. No nutritional value, nothing to gnaw upon.
Finally, I get a single index finger inside the small secondary pocket of my jeans. There is one key — a novelty key that unlocks nothing in my immediate incarnation. Yet I keep it nearby, just in case there’s a sudden, unexpected rusty lock.
Because for all my doubts, darknesses and hobo eccentricities, I still carry a metaphysical bindle of magical hope. Princesses are real. Jerk.
I think I can hear laughter in the stables. I’m hoping it’s mine.