for Josh Kain
You drink your vente-créme de caramel-macciato with organic milk and cinnamon whip. Sip it gingerly as you open your books, as you let all the words fall out. Pick them back up and carry them reverently, the idle props of your one-man tribute to ennui.
I’ll have a small cup of stiff, black coffee. I’ll wade into the neighboring river as the sun crawls up the sky. I’ll whip my line back and forth, the whistle of which will be the only sound God did not make.