Jaime Jacques
WHEN DELIVERING MAIL, I STOP AT THE BAR TO USE THE BATHROOM
which wouldn’t be a thing,
but two years sober
and I’m thirsty.
I breathe in bleach and stale beer,
relax into the dark room of misfits:
man with sword tattoo on face,
woman with wild, silver hair.
I wouldn’t mind having a drink
with that woman I think,
as I open the stall door.
A co-worker once told me about a guy
who parked his truck downtown,
threw the keys in the nearest mailbox,
and walked away.
I’m tired of kale and soda water
and scanning parcels.
The toilet flushes.
I tuck in my neon yellow safety shirt,
adjust my mask,
walk out past the pull of naked faces,
condensed droplets on pints of beer.
The woman is laughing.
Her bangles are jangling.
Two years.
At this point most people brag
about meeting the love of their life,
buying a house,
starting their dream job.
Maybe you’ll hit your stride
at three years, a friend suggests.
Back in the truck
I sing to Ed Sheeran’s Bad Habits,
I hate the song.
At red lights I drink
from my thermos of green tea,
pretend to appreciate the notes
of rosehips, safflower and cherry.
I am reaching for myself.
The center keeps moving.