whose children clog the backseat. They howl Sarah Mclaughlin lyrics over a Linkin Park sound. He thrums the veins of the hollow passenger beside him with his thumb. There is no love like an empty seat. There is no love like empty. There is no love. He searches for obituaries in imprinted dirt or chatrooms you use on private– no one can know the dead you bury. There is so much dead in his fingers he has to exfoliate daily with Oh Gods and I’ll do betters and who am I withouts. He knows who he fills and how his children empty when they spit his spirit back into the earth. He knows where they will go before the moment of conception. What a classic dad move to know what is coming and let his black sheep burn and burn. God uses Google maps when he is looking for the longer route out and away.

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3 December, 2022