Yeah, okay,
let's not get into the angst, this time.
We won't. I don't like that kind of thing,
anyway.

We'll stick to casual observations,
About life, the universe, and everything.
Book five was even worse the book four, and that's saying something.
For a trilogy.

Sole-eating heated cement and my feet
sweat through the socks. She grows silent.
Shakes her head. Waves at a fly on her nose and suddenly it's summer,
all over again.

So, anyway,
casual intimacy is more than a handshake,
less than a fuck. That's what she said,
hey?

We'll pass the time along to
Someone else.
Someone a little more
proactive. Colder blood. Passionate.

I'll just melt along the pavement,
cushioned by pink gum.