we're standing outside the grounds and
i notice how my forearms look remarkably
tan against the white bars, darker than the
loose wet sand out in the arena, a calf trots
by and darts off when a young boy flips a beer
cap at its head--
Ben looks out to the bleachers and goes so, I gotta ask
and I know what's comin' before it leaves his mouth,
know it's something about you, something that's probably
gonna sting a bit so I say, yeah? and I smile real nice like
I don't expect a bad thing--
and he peels a layer of skin from his knuckles and says that he went and asked Alan about me, about what kind of person I was--
that you up and told him I was real ****** churchy all full bore and what have you...so I go quiet and he looks over and gets this startled
expression, like I've gone pale. Which is funny, all things considered.
but he bumps my shoulder and says I won't bring it up again,
i just was curious
I shake my head because I know I'm good at hiding an
erratic heartbeat. I can see you leaned back somewhere with a
*** of copenhagen nestled into your front lip, real ****** churchy
comin' out of you sharp and smooth like a blade,
I imagine you might be hurt about it all,
what business have I got with a Rusher?
twice as crazy as you, probably.
I tell him I've got to go--gotta go because it's late,
because the rodeo is over, because pluto is 4.6 billion
miles from earth and I can feel its gravity--I gotta go.
While I'm driving home, I'm tapping out the syllables
and counting the letters, whisperin' real ******' churchy
to myself, incredulously, in agreement, partially because
I can't think of much else
I didn't expect that, really.
Not from you.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
alrighty.
