NaPoeWriMo, Day 7

[jakebe]

The Third Person

The last time he liked anything
it was a root beer float he made
from three scoops of vanilla ice cream
and a frosted glass,
and some gourmet bottle of the stuff
that boasted of roots that had come
all the way from Madagascar.
He had been thinking about it on the drive home, and,
after the dog had been fed,
and the mail had been attended to,
and his clothes had been put away,
he opened, took, opened, poured, and carried it,
so cold it stuck to his fingers,
and ate it with a spoon in his backyard.
It was fall, and the weather had gotten too cold
for this sort of thing but damned if he didn't
eat most of it, and drink the rest,
and licked what was left
while the smell of rain and dirt and dead leaves
were around him.
He could smell his own sweat
and the leather on his boots
and the stale tobacco in his right shirt pocket
and his dog, who farted,
and regarded him with an apologetic look.

It's hard to get worked up about much, he finds;
the job's a job, and his life isn't much,
and his dog doesn't do much besides eat and sleep
and shit where he's not supposed to
but every once in a while, he sits in his yard
with a glass of tea, or of whiskey, or of soda,
and he remembers that frosted mug, and he can't see
a single thing that's wrong with the world.