You leapt the river of Highway 55 for her. Your lungs organize the vapors of cars and side street garbage. This is the night you learn about small cigars and the meaning of a body count. You learn some men will only say they want you to get to someone beyond the high table with the creaking swivel stools. Your fries cascade down to the linoleum and the curve of your spine is the handle for any of their interest.
A meteorite hits somewhere near Best Buy, you think. It is the only rational motive for the air tasting like soot and the juggling of your organs, the almost spitfire eyes when no one remembers your name. You say it in your head over and over until it is only a murmur of sound that people who love the dip of your nose use to get your attention.
People are not very good at rescuing you, so you act as if someone already has. You do not know what you want. In the black lot, you’re trotting behind a small congregation of heads topped with smoke. Dandelions missed by the weed spray turn away from them and their disregard in their shoes. You figure you can trust a small congregation of flowers; they must know what holds good air.