The Little Yellow Man in the Square Black Box Part 3

The Little Yellow Man in the Square Black Box
invited me to his corner's corner's corner
and for a moment,
I looked back at the Commander
still studying his upside down map
mumbling to himself
about Steve Perry and which way West was.

At this
I took the Little Yellow Man's hand
and was greeted warmly
by all the old favorites.

A familiar tune moistened the airwaves
and let loose happy drippings
in my warm Dos Equis,
humidified that natural wood finish,
and wore the dead skin
off every bronze twang within a 700 sq. foot radius.



On the balcony that looked over the Ol' Granbury train tracks,
The Little Yellow Man and I
took turns seeing how long we could hold our breath
before the recycled environment ripped itself from our lungs
and became a signal in the sky
that we were Far from Over.


As the coasters became more and more unnecessary
and the idea of a closed window was not so risky,
we made a jump for it
but caught on the Black Box's edge.

The Little Yellow Man shoved himself over
and with a thud,
beckoned me to follow.

With my ass in the sky,
hung over that Black Box
I looked once more to Commander
to see him for what he was.

"Not mine."



And my thud
was soon to follow.