Just James
His deep brown eyes are bookended
by a pale glow that mirrors moonlights.
Shadowy eyebrows reflect serifs
beneath his outdated mop-top hair
as James lunges like a nail toward
the dome light of his rust black truck.
~
Television rays flashed through his glass, a blushing
prism,
as his beer stained hands cozied next to my
prepubescent voice.
Over long whispers of Vodka and Mountain Dew, James
told me
he couldn’t handle the way I turned sentences into
gods.
His fingers, tuned to the construction of oil filters
and combine engines, fail at grasping my syllables and
verbs.
~
His truck putters to life like the sun
spreading throughout the horizon.
He brings his bent windshield wiper
from the claustrophobic cab
and peels off ice. As he inhales,
his ashy cigarette explodes
against his midnight leather jacket.
James is a dying star rushing
alone through the emptiness of space.
~
He wore a pinstriped awkwardness that glowed in the
light of the fridge
as he chugged shot after shot and hollered
obscenities.
With a smile, I explained to the Saturday night party
of casual slacks and sweaters, Don’t worry. That’s
just James.
He returned to the comfort of the couch, mixed drink
in hand.
We gathered around to see if his drunk hands could
play guitar one more time.
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