Falling in Love with Unreality

Posted on Jul 13, 2014

A man was eating shrimp and tortillas on the patio of the café,
alone, reading Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s poem 20, the one

about falling in love with unreality, a falling he knew, time
and again. There was a band loading up their gear, sweaty,

(the drummer had been standing on the kick drum a few
minutes prior, ecstatic and primal for a crowd of about twelve),

a little girl said, “this is the greatest night ever! This is the first
band I ever met. Do you like them as much as Jack White?” to her

father, who smiled in a way that said no, not really, but they
were a good band on this night, out here, with that moon up

there. It was a warm night, a simple night. Nothing that suggested
this night would be a wild one. Outside the gates, a boy of about

sixteen was forcing a long sliver of iron into a passenger side
window, shattering glass until what remained was like the crust

on crème brûlée, snatching a young woman’s bag. Its contents:
her wallet, her phone, her passport, and two of her favorite

dresses, a green one and a red one, from the thrift store.
Falling in love with unreality, a couple strolling along hold

hands, babble whatever is on their mind, still new enough
for anticipation of what comes next, tonight, whatever it is

comes next, out here, this simple night, that moon up there.

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