So Much About John

If he could take a pencil and write out all those wrongs, I'm still not sure that he would do it. If he could press record and wipe out all those songs, he'd probably only make it halfway through it before he got bored and went to have a rest, and doesn't that say so much about John? I think he believes that his friends have been blessed by the mere gift of getting to sing along. Otherwise how would you account for the way he wastes her time, marking backwards birthdays on awkward calendars still to be forgotten?
Tuesday to Tuesday she's found waiting with her juice for him to get his things together in a messenger bag that's laid out, the velcro loose, near meticulous movements stretched forever. It's no anomaly, for this sequence soon repeats and she'll be stuck behind the screen door with a drafty wind on her neck and a series of defeats, wondering, "what is it, what is it, what is it, what is it all for?"
It's much akin to some backyard-growing, long-forgotten vine — they're waiting for his ripe return to life not knowing he's already rotten.