Wash and rinse. Shampoo, blow-dry. A thorough baptism in the beauty salon. Weighted in the chair, feeling heavy with the smock over my body and the towel momentarily over my eyes. Mouthwash routine. Getting the plaque out, getting the germs out. I will do this for the rest of my life, morning and night. Stumped about a question I cannot answer. Rinse my brain with beverage. Carbonated and frothy and will at least get me to bed. Not that I’ll sleep well, but it’ll at least get me there; Make me agreeable. A cold frosted glass versus a room temperature piece of plastic. A good versus evil of sorts. Socks spit out of the sock drawer. It’s a paranormal event where a ghost is not sure when he should wear to his first day of school. All I can see is a multi-color hurricane avalanche. It’s time to tuck your chin under and roll. It is multi-color gymnastics. Not only costumes and outfits, but equipment. It’s the 90s. That gym seemed so big when I was 5 years old. Swishing around the memory and spitting it out. The reverberation of the room, staying put before moving on. A pitchfork in a bale of hay near a trough where horses lackadaisically drink. Droughts bring conundrums. Old West. Oregon Trail again. September leaves are calling in the wind, whipping them up into a tailspin frenzy. Rockets take off from the Cape without a sound I bet; Some future distant daydream (again). Hard to pinpoint the silence. Could be you’ve just gone deaf. Magic happens when we least expect it. It sometimes happens with our eyes closed in the dark. Deplaning all doubt, registering what comes next. A flow chart and each potential possibility. The mouthwash goes from one cheek to another as I may awkward eye contact with myself in the mirror. Having a laugh, taking it easy, spitting out the foam. Fake rabid dog at play. Old Yeller. A movie that felt like a previously recorded national event. “Will you please rise for the national anthem?” Uniformity in nationalism; The deviation of black keys from white keys but the piano still plays. Marvelous milling about outside a ball game. The smell of Premio sausage getting toasty on the grill. Overpriced everything, go into the debt and leave that game wishing you could just beam right out. “Scotty, where are you?” – Instead of taking the B train (by total accident), all local stops, back to Penn Station from Yankee Stadium. God, I long to do it again. It’s been lonely without a ballgame that means something, that counts for something. Dusty feet bathing in dirty water. A washbasin made of worn plastic. A copper wire.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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