the project's character writes out of necessity, out of the gossipmonger's zeitgeist.

sometimes i want this. then the catch, and i think better. ten months in the city of cities, with my bad ankles second guessing dr. persaud's less-than-aggressive treatment. braces and 300 declarations, the assassins still sing he'll never write again. more than divinity, much less divinity school, i’ll never own my little white lies.

i measure my friendships by the music given me. what i burn, what the family dumps into their digital photoframes. that i burn what i burn, they worry over the family i gave up for this. if a soothing reprise, an interlude westbound. i’ll scream all the way down I-80 if i can just rest when i stop. that we stop for more than bertha-food, new windshield wipers, and beef jerky.

because i never did get it right when i was married, everything after the divorce papers is still an affair. cheating on the man i would have been had i tried to be. nurses and doctors and teachers, oh my. stations, locker rooms, and parking lots play the hits from glory days the decades can’t claim. instead, a muzak freshness rings the bell, billows the white smoke.

had i stayed, sun. had i finished, humidity. had i wrote the poem, knowing what it would do to us, mercenary. yes, had i went to war—had i made one up—in all likelihood: god, country, family. yes, in that sequence of forgiveness, in that order of appearance.