We scuffed across the wide sidewalks, 3 AM ***** persuading us the dim-lit bridge wouldn’t fall away beneath our curiosity to see the university’s emptiness, content in August’s stagnancy. I tried to picture thousands of strangers walking different paths to reach their point B, but soon we stepped off yellow-toned brick and I saw hippies laying on the ground outside a pub, smoking joints. One woman with hip-length dreads, her face as wrinkled as crumpled love letters hidden behind my dresser, pointed and said, You’ll forget yourself some day.
Months later, I blinked awake in the tank as dawn crept through my cell bars, quietly, like the disappointment on my birthdays or Mom’s sighs when she browsed the mail for child support checks never sent by my train-wreck, truck deck loving old man who ****** me off when I mistook him for that self-righteous cop hell-bent on teaching me a lesson of respect. He had that patronizing presence, and it blinded me with magma rage I felt in my arms, through my knuckles, right to his rib cage. I still don’t remember the way back to that dingy pub.