Sitting up late watching the Munsters and eating cheese popcorn and listening to my teeth crackle and writing down whatever this mixed up mind sends to the hands through the pen that’s chewed to the end and three days of ***** dishes stuffed in the oven where I don’t have to look at them and I wish I was somewhere exotic drinking White Russians and dancing to some Cajun beat with a tall dark-haired stranger I once saw in a dream back in the days of sleep-ins and late nights of laugh therapy before the days of real therapy and heavy sessions of what happened to me when I was five or fifteen or that night I got a little too close to that guy in the other lane and sunrises were a walk home after a night of who cares and where was I anyway?