Waiting for a squirrel
I keep reading obituaries. I didn’t notice it until I started reading them faster than the coffins were set down.
I have this feeling I’ll feel better, knowing that they’re dead even though they were famous enough to get a picture next to their obit in the New York Times and I’m sitting in this chair reading it and wondering what I’m going to do next. Thinking there’s a thing comforting in knowing they’re deceased, passed away, gone to a better place, over and done, while I’m a 21 year old knocking about the country and papering my walls with words that might have something to them.
But there might not be something to them and pretty much no one believes I prefer 100 stories and pretty much everyone believes that even if I do, I’m wrong. So that comforting thing keeps slipping slipping. Elusive devil.
And I don’t feel better, since I never knew them and they never knew me. And neither of us can figure out how to claim anything over the other, with wooden boxes all around and another round for everyone.
I keep reading obituaries. I forget why, but then I never knew. Something to do with orange juice, coffee and dieing before I bootleg bread to the pigeons in the park. Something about waiting for one of a 100 squirrels. Something about remembering a word that doesn't exist.