At it Again
Zach Sussman
God I hate this town
with it's rows of skinny trees
and white storefronts
and shiny black cars.
God I hate this town
waiting for my Chinese food
as a kid with a fat red face
stares at me through the window.
Only the truly lost know this feeling.
My bones call it by name.
The afternoon is humming.
People are busy.
Someone rides by on a bicycle.
Someone reminds me to have a nice day,
obviously a case of mild retardation.
I can't wait to get home
sprawl out on my roof in the hot sun
listening to Beethoven on the radio
and light cigarrettes until night sinks in
like an immense belly,
riddled with hair and stars.
