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Curbside Sunsets


"Out of all of the things that I've lost in my life, I'd have to say that the one I miss the least is my mind."


The man was in front of a grocery store, in a work uniform, talking to himself.


He laughed after saying it.




The health insurance company promises empathy and compassion, in a commercial between the NBA game.


A stack of unpaid medical bills sits on the counter, next to a large bag of weed.




“You write so much, but speak so little.”


“Yeah, doll. Yeah . . .”




27 days to find a new home;

or maybe,

the dog and I will camp on the street for a few months,

shower at a gym, and steal wifi from coffee shops.


But where would he go while I am at work?


Hmmm.


Maybe we won’t camp on the street.





Plastic

floats

down

the river,

heading towards the ocean,

where his

family

lives.


He rushes to meet them.





“You have eyes like your dog does.”

“Hey lady, mind your damn business. And stop looking in my dog's eyes—it’s weird.”


“I’m sorry.”

“And definitely don’t look in my eyes.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Good girl.”





He planted the flowers. He planted the vegetables. He planted the fruit. He grew it all. Then, the landlord gave him the boot. He decided to sell the house, giving the man 30 days to vacate.


He was transplanting his tenant. And I swear, if he lets those plants die, I will punch him in his old face. He’s already missing a few teeth, anyway.


What’s a few more?



Smile old man, and count your money with your new teeth.






“Why don’t

you just

smash

a

few

poems together

into one?”


“Would

that

make

sense?”


“Who cares?

Just call it art,

and it makes sense.”


“. . . I care a little.”






Two good friends

shake hands

at a funeral.


“Hey, man.”


“Hey.”


“This sucks.”


“Sure does.”


“He was such a unique guy.”


“He really was.”


“He was the type of guy that would stand in a ray of sunlight, that was coming through his bathroom window, as he pee’d, for 20 minutes. Just letting the light hit his face, man. Soaking it all up. Appreciating life. He was that kind of guy. The guy that could find joy in the little things in life.”


“Yeah . . . Wait, what?”


“Huh?”


“Did you do that?”


“Well, yeah, that was me. But it’s a pretty cool thing to say about someone at a funeral, don’t you think?”


“You’re an idiot.”


“. . . Will you say it about me, at mine?”


“I’m busy that day.”


“You better say something like that. Make it really poetic. And squeeze out a few tears, will ya?”


“We’ll see. How’re you going to die, anyway?”


“Old age.”


“Yeah, I ain’t going.”



-C.H.

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