Summer Champagne

I just want to feel excited about a moment I’m breathing in. I mean, if it happens, it happens, because, tonight, I don’t care whose bed I sleep in. I’m leaving it up to fate. Maybe I shouldn’t think this way. Maybe I should quit my job. Paul says

“Right now all you have is time,
and someday that time will run out.”

I probably shouldn’t let anything hold me back, then. Maybe I could live off other peoples’ leftovers for the rest of this summer. I could turn their trashcan tops into fine dinner plates. Maybe I could drink the rainwater from big thunderstorms. When the town’s people got tired of me scavenging in their backyards, I could always hop a train. Maybe I wouldn’t even know where I was headed, and maybe I wouldn’t mind not knowing. Maybe I would feel free then. But I know I often get lonely, and then I try too hard to have some significant connection. People get weird when I try to explain things I’ve bottled up for too long. I pop a cork and foamy discomfort sprays all over the room. They get wet, feel embarrassed, and just want to go home, and I want to keep them there so I can apologize for everything I’ve done wrong in my life.