hands clasping down on a mug of coffee,
on a blithe morning as the sprinklers turn on
to complement the grassy dew freckled across the yard
as a glistening reminder that i haven’t cut the grass
in four months,
and my neighbors might hate me because i’m a socialist,
or because i haven’t paid my hoa dues since i moved in
running from the scene of a place with no crime
in borrowed shoes with holes that have no meaning,
with small cuts all across my hand from unknown sources, unknown forces,
converging all at once and without warning,
the music stops,
there are no more chairs
i once lied to a girl i liked when i was in seventh grade that i liked nsync
because that was her favorite band and i was hoping that if i told her they were my favorite band too
then she might kiss me behind the k-mart parking lot
where all the kids in my class hung out and smoked weed, after-school-special like,
but instead she shrugged her shoulders, as if it was the most uninteresting opinion in the world,
as if i was the most uninteresting boy in the world,
and she was probably right about that moment,
since i had a difficult time thinking for myself at that age, this age too
Fred Aiken Writing 