i imagine it, but don’t do it. my girls keep me here. my job. my love of this life and these people and this city. my desire to write one more poem with a title much to long to be read by the populous. my fear of ever growing out of obscurity into a lime-light i know my pale-skin cannot accept. i stay not because the couch is much softer, but because i’ve read “the road” by kerouac and i remember how that crap ends (which is to say, better than the rest of the book…. the last 10 pages were the only part in the whole friggin thing worth reading). and my legs cant be simply shifted into neutral and allowed to glide peacefully down the other side of the Rocky Mountains. nope, these babies are fine tuned to need re-tuning, re-filling, and re-bathing-in-beer. because that’s the way i like my legs.