Minor Place

Back home after a night at the bars--another night
spent in the same places I always go in the same
minor place I've been in these last few years--I
take a beer from the fridge and sit on my stoop
watching the traffic lights on the corner blink back
and forth at one another. Red. Yellow. Red. Yellow.

I say this is a nothing place, too small for me, but it's
nights like these where I think that maybe this city is too
big. Even small cities demand aspirations and I don't
have a lot of those. I want to be able to fall asleep
every night and I want to wake up feeling OK, and only
one stop light towns accept wishes as minor as those.

On my stoop, staring up at a spider in a dingy web
tucked into the corner of the entryway, I decide that
when I move away I will go to the moon or to Montana.
I say out loud, "Mooooontana," and I know that I'm drunk
and I know that tomorrow will be another day that I won't
remember because nothing will happen.