Maybe it’s late. The moon slivers outside. I’ve lost track of my tracks. I could ask that man over there for the time, give it to me please. I know what he’ll say. But then, what will I think? How will the knowing of hours and minutes and seconds help me find anything aside from the fading piece of tile I’m standing on? My pack is gone. They nap in marula trees, far away from the ordinariness of today. I long for the lapping of warm tongues on my back, the familiar company I had when searching for a drink of water, when feeding off the splayed spine of a gazelle. That man is drinking Gatorade, the color of poison. Doesn’t he know? Here, where does the sun go to hide? Here, what do stars fall into? Here, you run to and from no one but yourself. Here, feet are covered in nylon strings pulling the toes further away from the ground. I pull my hands from my pockets and examine my calloused fingertips. My ears seek sounds from jungle’s night. His somber face glows above a handheld screen. He masticates a Dorito with passive molars. How will he know when the predators are coming? He won’t survive long in a place like this, hiding behind the glossy pages of People magazine. Pocket change jingles in my coat. A fuzzy announcement is made. They have our luggage, all the things we think we needed to be here with us are slowly making their way out of the mouth of the wall. I’ve packed my pillow and my blanket, clean clothes, mascara to make my eyes appear more open. But they’re not. I can’t see anything here.
