The gravy train leaves town the same time as the other trains.
I've been staring at your father's
bedroom ceiling for
weeks now, forming right triangles
from the bumps in
the paint, but only now, in the very early
dawn, do I understand
that this habit is
only a feeble attempt to
make something right. It makes me
a little sick
to say, but when I find
myself confronted
by someone eager to spill
his story, to have a moment of
complete
vulnerability in the presence of another, I also find
myself half-listening while the other half
of my attention, the real part, is
critically rating his jawline
on a scale of one-to-five.
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