Broken. Busted. Dusted. Wrangled.

Forgiven. Forgotten. Forlorn. Wrestled.

The train stops on three stripes and a white sea. The car drives past the house. The trips to Santa Fe and the lost relationship. The hotel. The motel. The dust.

Breakfast on the veranda. Broken wrists and exploded lungs. Empty cans thrown into the back seat and you’ll never be able to look at yourself in the mirror.

You don’t paint anymore and you lost your eye for photos. You’re broken. The job fucking broke you. The mindlessness and the unending apathy. The branded sweatshirts and the meetings. The mindless meetings. Oh, the mindless meetings. You are broken.

Thanksgiving dinner. A hockey game. A series of videos. Red chair, red chair, brown couch. Low light. Low light. Low light. The weeds in the front yard need pulling. Late night party time. Six buses and they’re all empty.

Shuffle through the deck. Send a copy early. Make a coffee. Drink a coffee. Leave New York in a rush.

Forget. Forgot. Forgive.