We’re leaning on the yellow cement pillars in front of the convenience store that keep drunk high school kids from driving through the store and killing everybody.

You’re drinking out of a paper bag and I wonder how long everybody will maintain the paper bag charade. Like, how long will it be in our culture that covering your drink in public is recommended? It feels like we’re on the cusp of change, at least in that regard.

“You know,” you’re saying, “If this mother-trucker just fell off the edge, and humans just started to bite the biscuit, man, just give me a lounge chair with an umbrella strapped to it, ya know?”

I didn’t know, really. I actually had no idea what you were talking about. But I loved you when you drank so I said sure. I said maybe that’s all any of us ever needs. A lawn chair with an umbrella strapped to it. And maybe the umbrella looks like a watermelon.

Across the parking lot, the sun is making a firm but timely exit and paints the sky a hard orange. Pink comes next, then black: the international flag of the evening, of drinking in a convenience store parking lot. A light on a timer clicks on behind us.

“Yeah man. Gimme that umbrella chair. And we can just watch the whole world lose at BINGO, you know?” You take another bag-drink and chase it with a bite of licorice. Fuckin’ B. I. N. G. O.

I think about how maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the brown bag isn’t on its way out, maybe it’s timeless and will exist until the end of humanity. Will visit our grave sites & leave flowers on our gravestones that read: “Died in their umbrella-lounge-chair thing. Died happy & shaded & mostly horizontal.”

Self -Isolation – Day 39: Finish 3 poems about love, do your taxes, fucking etc.

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