A ride in the van that ends in sushi. A walk through the building that ends in the kitchen. You’ll do as you’re told. Pink over black. Sometimes. Sometimes never. Swallow a giraffe and get into the ring. There is no sign from heaven and the hardwood floors know it. A grocery store and a stick of gum. A trip out east with trains and planes and cars. Somehow, at forty-six, I feel lost and I suppose it’s normal, but without ever having been here before, it’s difficult to say. Onward. Forward. You never listened anyway, said the record to the record player. Tincture. Puncture. Structure. Relent. A dozen cars and more bikes and homemade waffles nearly every morning. Do as you’re told.