Comfort Zone

There’s a perfect spot
to sit out in the grass field where
the concrete doesn’t reach
and some old bleachers
haven’t rusted into nothing.
Our footsteps echo off them
while we meander to the middle
and get too comfortable
with being so far out.
Answering machine messages
always have a slightly annoyed tone
to them because what else
could you be doing besides
waiting for a chance to hear
what they think
in their infinite awareness?
The bathtub overflows
whenever she uses the hose
to water all the flowers
she’s been growing as a way
to tell the soil that she’s sorry.
We mop it up with towels
left all over like a graveyard
soaking up the scattered souls
all buried under.
I do not wonder what other people
are thinking because I’m comfortable
not making those assumptions.
Recently I’ve been trying
not to linger in that comfort zone,
so I’ll look at you as you look at this
and guess incorrectly now
that you are thinking about
a city somewhere staggered by
a Friday night and everything
you put off until tomorrow.
If I’m projecting then I guess
you know me better now,
and since I’m no longer a stranger
can I borrow fifty bucks
to put a small dent
in the endless drive to Phoenix?
I’ve never been there
but I hear it’s nice,
and I’d really like to see it
if you’d let me.

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