maybe hank was right

the goddamned neighbor’s dog is yipping and clawing at the door because i made the mistake of taking out the garbage and alerting it to the presence of life outside it’s domain

the lady down the hall called me meester mike and handed me a plate of tamales

ever since i fell from a tree rescuing her gato, she has felt like she needs to take care of me

i don’t complain, tamales being a form of masa coated ambrosia and all, i would be a bigger fool than i already am

i get home from work just in time for the setting sun to reflect off of the windows across the parking lot directly into my eyes

the yipping dog, the smell of fresh tamales with queso blanco for the blanco diablo (don’t think i don’t know what she is doing, i’m on to your games) and the blinding light add up to a rumbling tummy and aching skull

my mind goes to her

it always goes to her, the damned thing needs to charge her rent for the amount of space she takes up in my empty head

yet i’m sitting here, listening to that mangy mutt in my boxers and flaming lips shirt wishing she would steal a bite so i can arch an eyebrow and feign indignation as an excuse to kiss her lips and taste the salsa verde and smell the wildflowers in her hair

instead of shivering alone, wondering why the tamales taste like ash, listening to the scratching while squinting in an angry, listless daze

maybe hank was right, stick to wine and horses, a big cigar and lonely nights writing

don’t dream

it never ends how you think it will

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