Piss in the Yard - She Has Locked Herself in the Bathroom

Piss in the yard. She has locked herself in the bathroom again. Lean back and bash your face into the silver glow of her majesty. Rummage the stars for familiar constellations; find Orion and speak no words, search for Draco and succumb to ignorance. Follow the dipper handle with your eyes and leave while still she moralizes through closed doors and communicates with silent words, unspoken thoughts.

Pass an old man whose eyes pierce your thin layers. Think of your father, think of yourself and avert your gaze. Walk to the corner bar for warmth and a bathroom door minus working locks. Drink pint after pint of cheap blue ribbon beer and stumble out full of foam. Think of the bathroom prisoner and let your heart harden. Puke and spit into the yards of your neighbors. Peer in their windows, families bundled around televisions like church alters, receiving sermons in Americana. Look up into their daughter's bedroom window; see a be-speckled teenage girl before a mirror. Think of a German girl you met in your twenties before the shackles of houses and wives and business suits and oil changes every three thousand miles and avert your eyes. See your dog wandering the streets, catch and drag him home by the collar, latch the gate and piss in the yard. Search for Orion and find him on the horizon. Stare up at your windows and find them black and empty and let your heart break. Sneak inside quietly and creep into the guest room. Watch sport center and Cinemax. Satisfy animal urges with the flick of a wrist. Look out your window and see your dog staring in at you, whimpering. Whisper in drunken understanding and sleep.

Wake to a silent house. Read the note through the bag-of-assholes feeling of the morning after, fold it up and put it in your shirt pocket. Hear the phone ring and let it ring. Turn on the television and ignore it. Go outside and toss a stick to your dog. Piss in the yard out of habit and defiance, look up at the clear blue sky, see the sun, shield your eyes and say nothing.

Go inside and close the door, windows, cupboards. Turn over her picture and turn over her mother's picture and turn over her friend's picture. Look at the unexplainable cut on your hand. Go into the attic and feel the dry heat of the dusty past on your face. Shutter the window against the sun and find a picture of the German girl from your twenties. Sit, reflecting on alternate paths. Lay back on the dusty wooden floor as the sun sets and leaves the attic dark. Hear her return below opening doors, windows, cupboards. She is calling your name. Say nothing.