Make love to the
girl who smells like potatoes. Clutch her hand and both of you, at sunrise, go
see the man about the dog. From a tree limb unravel a yellow rope. Walk the dog
downtown, to the giant tire swing. To the graffiti waterfall. To the office, to
post. Mail half a pint of whiskey to your mother. Tell her of the girl. About
the Johnny Cash music in her hair. How you finally found someone who agrees
about littering laws—they desperately need enforcement. Pause for passing
shadows. Look up, into the smirking face of the southern sky. Let the rope go
limp, let the dog howl as it scuttles away. Even now, love is fading. So hum
the songs of Johnny Cash. Notes stumbling from your lips. Crumbling as they
lift and fall. Press your fingers to the girl’s eyelids. Close her eyes. Think.
Dig the other half of whiskey from your pocket. Swallow it down. Toss yourself
onto the ground.
Sean Lovelace
seanlovelace.com
Last Evenings on Earth
Roberto Bolaño