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
Last Evenings on Earth 
Roberto BolaƱo