Written for Faith Wilson as part of LitCrawl 2017

I see you’re in the same clothes
as yesterday, he says.

I see you’re still in two-tone
Canterbury shorts, I say.

His mechanic hands are black
around the beer he’s sipping.

The skin beneath my eyes is black
after all my thinking.

What’d you think was gonna
happen anyway -

that you would gap it, come home
and things’d just work out?

Around us the garden waits to grow.
I say nothing. He is right.

People can be good but
they can also be cunts, he says.

We’re both sitting on the deck,
our legs over the edge onto the grass.

Yeah, I say. I guess you’re right.
I guess they can be cunts.