I’m sitting outside on a mild, dry, blue-sky day on the large patio of a small mexican restaurant. The tables around me are full of people full of margaritas. A couple is breaking up, slowly and carefully, to my right, their table lampooning their wobbling words. Just in front of me three women are clinking and celebrating—a big new ring on one of their fingers, loud and proud. Whoever is behind me just sneezed and farted at the same time. I hope this person is alone, I think, but then maybe not—which is worse?
The breeze, when it passes by,
isn’t necessarily refreshing
the current weather is perfect,
and still. It’s hard to imagine it not
being like this—everything (a) static
background, un-impressed upon
us, as if nothing is negative, or subpar, or wrong,
and if so
why do anything, at all?