Hunger was never an excuse Drink the promises I gave to you, and spend what is left on yourself. “Don’t buy a convertible or invite the Kennedy’s for company, what would come next is not pleasant.” You wear your smile as if to say, “I am ready for weather”. Middle of the street, an odd place for this but our eyes are locked, your car stands between us like a farmer in an orchard holding a burlap sack, “Pick the road and drive.” And I say this, hoping you built that box we talked about, “The box strong enough to hold jungle monsters from our dreams in place like catholic school boys standing erect for role call.” The box just in case one of us had to, or decided to, or needed to leave. The car door opens, you step in: “I’d still like to be friends.” You hand me the box: “I will never be your friend. I promise.” You drive away, sending box and road shaking my fingers and toes the richter scale.