The game is on, but the beer supply is diminishing. Outside, a dirt bike with a lawn mower's engine is ridden from end to end in the alley. Extra-long cigarettes burn at the bottom of green glass bottles. On the radio, the announcers say that the pitcher sports a mohawk which means it must be true. The dishes are drying, but the stacks of comics could afford to be rearranged. I keep telling myself that it is OK to write badly. The subway screeches to a halt, but there's nowhere to go at this hour. The books have been read, but there's one that hasn't been written yet. I keep telling myself that cheesy lines like that are OK, mainly because thats what tonight's pasta was lacking.
The change on the counter has been counted, and moved into rows. The flannels have been folded and put away while other long sleeves amass in a laundry pile. Its been a slow news day, but that hasn't stopped the de facto congregation in the street. They have car stereos, and will wait until October. The sirens are just getting started. I must have missed the gunfire.