Dusk

Like the first nervous tremblings of a caffeine rush, the mouth bitter with the dark of coffee, poised in thought but still in body, another American morning.
The freeways streaked with light, long aperture pupils masked behind heavy lids, a dull craving for idealized vagrancy.
The smell of rotting bananas in a summer hot kitchen, a single fly trapped in a room, glazed eyes watching, too tired to move save for the twitch of a tail.
But moisture. How she hated that word. Too evocative of the decomposition of soil and eager hands clawing into musky underthings.
A neglected garden mistaken for a compost pile, the boring story of a happy man made interesting by his ruin. How we love to watch things topple.
He woke with blood in his mouth, a thick discharge mixed with mucus, that upon spitting left him deeply satisfied.
Crushing eggshells and coffee grounds between fingers, one comes to understand the meaning of organic.
They wanted brown paper meaning wrapped with clever. New things made to look old. And they wanted to feign jaded lest they be judged for enjoying it.
Finding radio confusing, they returned to playing horseshoes.