The Window Factory II

Pinch the corners. Cut the tubes. Blunt cut. Angle cut. Micrometer the ends. Squint. Say. Record. Run the glue gun. Run the saw. Sweep your hand over the glass. Pinch the corners. Blow don’t huff. Move the fan. Prime the edges. Tape the ends. Open a box. Let it de-gas. Tape the blow-out straps. Move. Circle the window. Listen to classical music. See your boss. He’s talking about you. Wipe the window. Stack it. Fall into the notes of a song. You can hear all the way across the warehouse. Your boss, he’s talking about you? Finish the stack. See the girls. The pretty girls laughing. You can’t see the window for all the notes of the song. Go outside, smoke a short cigarette. Find your phone. Do not. Lock yourself out. Call your boyfriend. He’s doing a floor. He does floors. Sawdust van, cigarette butts in a cup. He keeps fireworks in the jockey box. ‘Come get me. Come get me.’ He’s doing a floor. ‘I’m doing a floor, babe. Take the bus.’ Go back in. ‘Sean, I’ve got to the take the bus home. I’m having a panic attack or something. I don’t know.’ Cigarettes. Winter breathing. A ditch filled with trash. Bus goes by, shit. 15 minutes ’til another, shit. ‘Let’s talk.’ We are talking. ‘Have a beer,’ Sean says, he can see inside me. ‘Go across the street and have a beer. Do what you need to do.’ ‘No.’ I need to get to bed. Across the street I stride rubbery, giant Christmas trees dancing. The boys on the bus are talking about me. Where am I going? My lets know so it’s OK. His bed. His horrible walls slashed with mistakes. What rubs like that? Posters of dead friends. Live fast, die hard?

Later he comes in, touches my face. I wake up. ‘How you doin’, babe? Feelin’ better, babe? Listen, babe, did you use that real little pan this morning? Did you fry your eggs in that real tiny little frying pan?’ Nodding. His face breaks open into a glorious smile, ‘You are so high! Man, you got really high on that stuff! I made butter in that pan, pot butter, for the past two days. Lemme see your eyes.’ I show him my eyes. He laughs. ‘Man! I wish I was that high.’ So it turns out I am not crazy. I am not crazy after all, in his horrible bed where I follow myself in dreams, still high, high anywhere I go.

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