Mark was looking thoughtful, crooked neck with green eyes zooming in on sky, leaning left, right, left in the middle of a gravel parking lot. He has a way of consistently looking pensive. He often scrubs his chin with extended fingers and looks to the sky for all of the answers. Mark is sober, but his son isn’t.
There was a lady walking in the alleyway. She appeared to be intent on selling her ass so that she could acquire her next round of heroin. She scared me, but she’s probably nice. Where would she be if she was not doing what she’s doing?
I felt compelled to get in my Ford, head for home, eyeballs looking steadily at the tremendous inner tubes attached all around the car, wanting to dive back into Anne Sexton’s experience, her complete poems, in my sleek and slightly dark den. Anne talks to me about all of the dangers, and she survived so many of them. She helps me think of surviving danger by putting it on paper, away from the soul.