Walt is sloth slow
when it comes to
going somewhere,
primarily because
of his hang-ups,
or superstitions;
like he can’t walk
up or down
the same side of the street
on the same day,
or in and out
of the same door
when he’s coming
or going somewhere.
Today is no different.
I sit and wait, until
my gangly best friend
walks up in a muscle shirt
with no muscles,
wearing
throwback headphones—playing
jazz, no doubt—
and something
dark and blue
affixed
to the skin
on his left shoulder.