One Day This Past Summer

Ever have one of those days when no matter what the time it always feels like late afternoon? When late afternoon finally comes around, you think “finally” so you go to chow down on a po’boy with sweet potato fries and a bottle of Stella on the side, eyes looking at the waitress young enough to be your student and you want to give some kind of fucked up carnal lesson, cause, hell, she’s at least twenty four or twenty five. But you're married now and happy with that, so you admire the pasture from afar and that's the extent of how far you want to go, nuts snipped, and knowing a good home. So you sit there, sip the beer, fingers get sticky from the sauce slipping off the bun and greasy from the sweet potato fries that you know will be seeping out your pores until morning when you wake up with that phlegm-feeling you get after tuckin’ into a deep fried meal, and glass of beer ebbs a satirical coolness and teases with its texture of round, perfect glass. Waitress brings over the cheque and your fortune cookie for desert, cause you’re stuffed- even if you could afford something after all that. The cookie snaps and crumbles into two sections and several insignificant crumbs. Pull out the piece of white paper that has printed: “someone you know is waiting for your praise”. My first thought goes to God, but figure it can’t be him or her ‘cause I don’t believe in that kind of stuff, so I reckon it’s got to be someone else. I get home, the dogs great me at the door with their sloppy tongues and shake’n’shrapnel fur and I get it. So, I fill their bowls, give them a tussle on the head, they seem happy and eat while I need to take a shit, amazed at the speed of the grease lightening those fries must be because I already went once today in the morning, and here we go again. So I sit and read the paper about the shit and chaos that Hurricane Katrina is causing in Louisiana and how George Bush doesn’t give a fuck about the poor folk washed away ‘cos they’re black and I figure he must have enough cannon fodder in Iraq already and figure he must not be planning another invasion, therefore is leaving them to their anarchy while he watches, paranoid, to the barbarian hordes at the gates of his proverbial Rome. That’s it, I shit and do all the post shit stuff and thank the god in whom I don’t believe that it’s finally six o’clock because that’s what time it’s felt like all day.