Quick trip
We spent hundreds of dollars to explore the Scottsdale botanical gardens and complain about the heat and return, sunburnt and stoned to the blue balcony of the air bnb— paint peeling. Dumpsters rot in the alley below us, and in the sky ahead distant roofs flash intermittently, silver and bright, and birds sit defiant. The true lords of the city of Phoenix.
Walking downtown, we look for a bar, any bar— but not that one— landing in the Mortgage Matchup Center. Final destination. I watch the arena fill until every wall is made of faces except for the one in front of us all, and then I watch them smile, dance, and move as music drowns the room. James Mercer on the stage is like an animal who crawled out of my memory, and he sings the songs the 12-year-old under my face still sings when she stirs. The moment fulfills a prophecy I didn't realize I’d written, and I’m aware of all the others that hang— fruit ripening on the vine which dangles over my open mouth.
I will grow older again.