By Jorge Roque

              Sometimes, I’m so careless
that the weeks arrange themselves into a routine
              I resent for being so predictable.
Even the way someone says I’ve been good
              can help you understand the word
everyday.
I suppose it’s a compliment to say
                            you’re not part of that everyday.
Calling you means stealing Pale Ale
                            and citygazing above midnight traffic,
360 bridge—if only we took women there. And I’ve admitted
                            to cringing when you call; my first thoughts
holler the estimated hours of sleep.
You, Jon, with those plans to travel.
                            Was it through Central America?
                            Last time you dropped Romania as a possibility.
                            You didn’t seem as convinced as
just Saturday Pace Pend Park (five hours of gas).
                            When you go—well,
it’s so natural picturing you
                            not here.
That inhaler’s easy to imagine amidst notes in your bag. Already,
                            the daily pack of Camels stocked in your right coat pocket.
In my life sixty years ahead, your scribbled narrative
                            will linger alongside sighs and green tea.
But only during those afternoon hours, too many,
                            spent thinking to myself.
For now, the vision is as far off as this deadline
                            for the final paper. And the draft
for the letter will be sent maybe next year, waiting
                            against the window shades. Is it
pretentious to personify that letter’s third draft?
                            Somebody on their way out.
 

Jorge Roque is a sophomore at St. Edward’s University where he studies English Literature with a focus in creative writing. This is his first publication in a literary journal.

Painting in Header: Hatching, by Benedict Olorunnisomo