It is a late morning, a city, a sky of mixed clouds, it is a chain of minutes passing like box cars, it is metal, stone, cloth, oxygen, steel....
It is blood, skin, a swarm of memories, a crowd of self....
He is sitting on couch with a soda ..."he" "at"
he is full of regrets: dropping out of college, never moving away, never doing anything that was not warm and soft as the worn couch and safe as his tv dinner clicking away into simple fruition as another meal in the next room...
The night with friends when they suggested that college wasn't for him after he was on academic probation and the fact that he almost failed high school remain implanted warm
as though just uttered across a back yard on a dull July night.
He is 37 years old and works as a market research cold caller.........he rubs his belly and tries to remember the name of that woman he briefly was friends with in San Francisco before he dropped out....
He is comfortable now dull nubs come in slow dull pains at times sure, but he numbs them out with the reasoning of how painful it was to keep throwing things out there.........of questioning so many things and wanting..........
he has moved to the west valley.....that was enough...........
The microwave dings the alert that the molten miniature diorama in plastic of thanksgiving is ready to disappear in small portions...away...
and thusly it all disappears.....
......yet in the shapes of turns and the math within of what could have come to pass
he will complete this meal in a shirt and shorts in a house somewhere
