"I don't believe in Heaven or anything. But I want to be the kind of person that qualifies for entry anyway."
-Nick Hornby
The bums are busy this morning
Rustling through my waste
Garbage bag shuffle
Hands sticky from soda’s half drunk then discarded
I marvel at how slowly they sift inside the trashcans
Dipping their noses deep into the darkness
Inhaling and humming
Apathetic scavengers, pigeons rats
Confessing their sins to the inside of brown bags
They are busy because its Sunday
And my street is a testament to the depth of urban alcoholism
Its getting hot and they don’t have the sense to take off their coats
Their sweat drops to the asphalt and runs into the sewers
I watch them shirtless from my balcony
A cigarette between fingers still slick from sunscreen
Molly is shouting from inside
Something about being late to the beach
Telling me I can do anything I want is like pulling the plug out of the bath and then telling the water it can go anywhere it wants. Try it, and see what happens.
-Nick Hornby
Words written with a fingertip
Begging strangers
To make real
The mysteries of
What it is that separates us
