Saigon cafarde, a bitch, nothing for it but some smoke and a little lie down, waking in the late afternoon on damp pillows, feeling the emptiness of the bed behind you as you walked to the windows looking down at Tu Do. Or just lying there tracking the rotations of the ceiling fan, reaching for the fat roach that sat on my Zippo in a yellow disk of grass tar. There were mornings when I’d do it before my feet even hit the floor. Dear Mom, stoned again.
