Animals

Sit there like an animal, not in the derogatory, but in the best way, in silence, in good faith, loyal as the moon, always there, chasing our eyes despite our turning backs.
Kids, like four years younger than they claim, try to scalp the opportunity to bootleg, feeding your inner pubescent guerilla, just do it, 6-pack of peach Grower’s, keep the change. Sit there like an animal (but you are an animal, is that still a debate?) on the antique wood picnic table, carefully cut and grooved and varnished and scented like an antique wood picnic table would be, exactly perfect, but you wouldn’t know because you haven’t been alive that long, I guess you waited too long to be born, otherwise you might know the nature of wood from the 19th century, and how five generations later it just doesn’t warp the same way. Gut and nickel trenches gnaw straight through to the heart, don’t stop for freesias or fancy coffees, but today there’s nothing but obvious dykes with laser-guided hacksaws and hammer and nails made from polymers or something. Things were more natural, better, back then, and not this organic vegan shit, but you wouldn’t know because it’s a secret that time and weather whisper in small enough chunks so that even if you wanted to you’d have to wait seventy odd years and due diligence to comprehend why it is that old aluminum is different, carries a wiser virility, than new aluminum. Without sitting, without posture, without animals, opinions become us. Not true, distilled, but the stupor that words create when they try to match, like a game of telephone, our hearts, and by hearts I of course mean that part of our brain that emotions run through, the part that carries the code of what we really think. Not that accuracy and romance ever had a chance at a lasting marriage (and then who gets the kids?): religion and science couldn’t even get to effing Red Deer without fighting like animals.