But, there are always the things.
I asked Frank about being uncertain, how
does someone ever know, what to
think or even how to know which means
you had to
know how to do something
in the first place, right
(and how do you, ever).
He doesn't mention anything about how none of that really makes sense,
but talks about how a mailbox is really just a mailbox, and tomorrow
it will still be just a mailbox, and scratches his chin.
I’m already turning the whole thing into some metaphorical bullshit
the kind I'm learning to keep to myself. Also, fuck. What's that word again,
some other word for conversation that I
can’t think of right now.
I guess that lady with the cart who collects all of the cans in the city,
that's funny, because it's the only way either of us know how to survive.
Or that toad of a man who runs the dry cleaner
just around the corner, he forgot how to smile or maybe, he can't help it because
toads probably don't smile. Either way, his afternoon chocolate chip cookie,
I sometimes depend on that.
Of course, then there’s Frank,
and there’s Frank’s mailbox,
and the fact that Frank is sure of that mailbox,
which means there are always the things.
that’s something, right