I was looking like a lesson; she was looking out the window. There was sweat between my fingers and the wheel, and I was high-strung like a banjo. She said, “I want to see Chicago, so I act like I don’t care – ride the L for days and fall asleep with eyes I hide behind my hair. It’ll be fun. It’ll be sexy. People will take pictures, and I’ll bathe in rum and Pepsi. It’ll be hip, and it’ll be messy. I’ll act like nothings new, dude, just a flood without a levee.” The rain, it came with heavy weight that seemed to wash away the other drivers. I was hunched over and breathing hard and trying to see through the windshield wipers. She said, “I want to see Manhattan and just pretend like nothing’s there – look through every face and breathe in buildings as if they were made of air. It’ll be cool, and it’ll be huge. I’ll learn the way these kids talk and forget the words I knew. It’ll be touching, and it’ll be nude, and I won’t root for the home team unless I’m just with you.” They said, “Beware the ides of March,” and “April is the cruelest month,” so here’s another Goddamn New Year dreaming of May, and as I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord my soul to keep, and if He sees me unfit, to take away. Beneath me there’s a river that runs deeper than its waters with the hopes and fears of all the years and piss wrung from my socks. The crowd ceases to cheer as I run to take the field and the rival team just yawns and blinks and runs down the clock.