Welcome To My Bed

What I think about when I am too tired to sleep.

Will inhaling the smoke of too many Citronella candles kill you in the long term? Mosquitos just have kids to feed, man. I want Maggie to get the massive crack in her cement pool fixed so that we can go skinny dipping any night of the week and not have to bother anybody else to do it. Or skateboarding. That would also work. I always forget that I like vodka tonics. I don't drink enough Slurpees. Every cashier at the Hillsdale 7-11 must think we are crazy. Especially the Arab Frank Sinatra. I haven't seen him there in awhile--I wonder if he quit. He had the best hair of any convenience store cashier I've seen in a long time. Cept that one who looked like Don King somewhere along 95 between NC and NJ. How much force does it take to split someone's lip? I wasn't paying proper attention last time. I am very bad at keeping my own secrets. Maggie bought me a new-to-me typewriter, and it is probably the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. She remembered the brand and everything. I was almost crying in her kitchen, it was so beautiful. I read her the poem I wrote for her about my favorite words, the one that finishes off the new chapbook. There were lots of hugs afterwards. Maybe friend love is the only love worth working for, because it lasts longer. Maybe the only real commitment left in a post-divorce world is to the families we all construct for ourselves, the people we select from the crowded rooms and set apart, saying, "This is who I want to laugh and cry with. This is important enough to stay."