The weight of things passed
sits on my chest. I’m thinking fast
of Sufjan songs
of facial hair grown too long
of peaks and pics
of peeps and chicks
of flags in ceilings
of political leanings
(too far left,
to put to death)
of baseball games
of betrayal’s pain
of submarine sandwiches
of gravel ditches
where we almost crashed.
Oh, the weight of things passed.
***
“Are we hipsters, Dave?”
It’s a genuine question.
I’ve been wearing more flannel.
My jeans are tighter, my bike recycled.
Dave pauses.
“We don’t dress enough like hipsters.”
That’s not reassuring.
I don’t smoke American Spirits,
don’t drink Pabst Blue Ribbon,
don’t wear Ray-Ban Wayfarers.
I do like Fleet Foxes
and eat tempeh and seitan.
I buy beets at the farmers’ market.
Dave is silent.
I don’t wait for elaboration.
I change the subject.
***
Renter’s insurance,
a worrier’s assurance.
Ninety-five fifty.
It’s late. Forgive me.
Electronics are covered,
my worries shuttered.
On time or late --
good hands, Allstate.
