You crushed my foot. You did it on purpose. I’m still pissed.
I’ve tried to be an adult about this, to see this from your vantage. You were born into spoils. You were scouted and placed on a pedestal at too early an age. Bought for a tidy sum, more than any insurance company would policy for a dying uncle. You have a hired hand for your penis.
You spend your days under the ass of a former Playboy model, roaming exquisitely manicured Kansas plains. You have nothing to do but listen to the hum of a hundred-degree sun. And be occasionally gently water-misted, by the perfect coffee pectorals of a classically handsome man in his forties.
(Who, every day, would melody the fables of his lost youth—to you or the grass or me. When he would loll along the sands of the gulf and wait for the rich Europeans to roll off their boats into his bed. Stringing together a self-reported legendary run. Only to retire far too soon, as alas, every athlete must leave the game. To follow a rich divorcee back onto her yacht. And end up housed in a tiny changing room in a stable of horses. One member of which is you.)
Most of your time is invested in a lazy shamble from shade to shade. Taking to maw only bioengineered golden grain. Jettisoning reverse geysers of urine at the earth and dumping ungodly loads wherever, whenever, too close to whomever you please.
I can see how you crushing my foot might not be such a big deal for you. I can see how you might not even remember. But I do.
• • •
Now, I’m old enough to know that what you hate most about the world, is when in the world you find the things you hate most about yourself.
So in my memory of you, I see you seeing myself. And deciding to crush my foot.
Because I had a bad haircut. Because I thought I could make money writing poetry. Because in the Kansas summer I was painting the sixty year old fence that surrounded your vast plains, with a substance not unlike tar. In fact, exactly like tar. In the Kansas summer. Because, awkward and shirtless, I pruned your fields of play.
Because I was owned by the tall TV prop hatted man who owned those fields, that to you he so freely gave. Because I wasn’t even far enough up the ladder to mist you. Because I sacrificed my days sweltering under the same sallow sun that haloed your every endeavor.
(While the TV prop hat man tooled around in his classic immaculate Ford pickup. Manufacturing random projects of fancy. Like dropping off scavenged marble from the bathrooms of his foreclosure auction bought downtown real estate. To make stepping stone roads across mini bogs. So the four wheelers of visiting millionaires would get less splatter.)
Because I was not really in love with the woman with whom I shared my brother’s basement. Because I didn’t really mind living in my brother’s basement. Because I stared out at those ocean fields and pot lid sky and found no blueprint for any damn thing. Because I spent most mornings on the edge of hungover dreams, dozing off in the penumbras of your daily routine. Preemptively squashing the multitude of crawlers in the chaff, before they had an inkling to bite.
I’m pretty sure you kind of didn’t like me. I am certain you hated my sub-par pink pectorals.
• • •
So, if there is a just and righteous heaven which there isn’t. You will have to attend to the penis of a man attending to endless streams of Europeans off yachts. You will be a small thing capable of being crushed. And we will be on friendly terms, relieving ourselves all over the open plains.
But you will be under my ass. And lazily we will shamble from shade to shade to shade.