Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday dear Main Street.

Happy birthday to you!

(And many more on channel four.)

Weary Sailor

My hands rattle to the beat of untamed nerves. Any moment, I could hear the echoes of your shoes bouncing off the cobblestone sidewalk. My tongue, already in a knot, is another casualty of epic anxiety. I rehearse what I’m going to say to you, but I know that the second I see you, my words will be blown away and join the ranks of fallen leaves; scattered by the mystery of the wind. The air is as sweet as the rain that fell before it. On a summer night such as this, you can almost taste the memories of yesterday. Children playing in the spray of a fire hydrant, the scent of Mr. Gordon’s fresh peaches soothing every passerby and the thriving population of simplicity. I find a small stone on the ground and kick it against the side of the building. The stone ricochets off the brick and slams into a seasoned tin garbage can. Exasperating sounds of bass escape into the umbrella of the night. The brick of the building has been transformed from just to criminal, to criminal back to just. The moon casts light on what his brother cannot. The players of the night skulk by with unknown objectives and thoughts unsaid. Boredom the likely prognosis with just a few moonlit persons of insomnia. A cat shrieks. A dog yelps. And the sounds of purchased love resonates through the street so skeleton and barren of virtuous light. My watch has become a fixture in my vision. Any moment now. If you could only imagine what kind of pleasant storm of butterflies rage. I feel like I’m about a burst. So, weather goddess, come along, come alone and sooth the swelling seas of my stomach.