Margaritas

That’s not what I meant
I just haven’t been reading enough lately
So I can’t think in full sentences is all
I’m sure it has something to do with my parents
or a young divorce
that I get the same anxiety now going to bed without
a drink or two
as I did in third grade
when Aaron’s dad drove us home from the bowling alley
with a drink or two
under his belt

I want to step to the side of the mirror
and see the room without me in it
but even when I do
I catch a glimpse of my elbow in the shine
of the microwave door
and become intensely aware of the scratch
in my right glasses lens
the way it alters every piece of visual information
that makes the emergent journey from sunlight to my brain

An itch from wearing socks all day
then finally taking them off
there’s an intense anxiety about the physical space
I inhabit that–Sorry

I got distracted by a man in khakis with sunglasses strapped to his face
held on by those nylon strands that fishermen use
pushing a large margarita machine on a metal cart
I wonder if he could see his own face shining off the
surface of the cart as
head down in afternoon spring sun
he did something strange in a public place

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