Sunday Morning (2/2)

And then there’s the first step into the world, a baptism of its own, where I can’t help but relate to the wet concrete underfoot. My mouth tastes like concrete, the sky tastes like concrete, this city tastes like concrete and if you dropped us in the ocean we’d sink straight to the bottom (a baptism, but you don’t resurface). A black haired woman walks by and last night’s girl flickers at the edge of my memory. “What kind of house does God live in?” I had asked her, just before she rolled her black eyes and fluttered out my window in to the rain. Or perhaps she used the front door. I don’t properly recall. My cell phone dances like a pocket maniac, one I’ve angered with last night’s unremembered sins, and I finally answer. “Hello?” “Plato! How are your ribs holding up?” Sunday morning is a sunrise-colored bruise you can’t explain.