Brookstone Fowler Goes To The Park

He mourned the loss of his pet.
She died only after a month in his house, turned blue and got stiff.
He buried her in the community garden on Ravenswood under the orange tulips because orange was the her favorite color.
His sadness mellowed a bit now, under the wave of after-work martinis and cocaine in the bar bathroom, but it still lurked in his stomach and lower. He wanted a new pet, something to love and hold again.
He leaned against the black metal fence surrounding the park and watched the children play.
Softball and Four Square and chaotic running around.
The wind hissed through the bush covering half his body, leaves brushing against his suit jacket. His silk tie got caught in a gust and snagged impaled itself on a thorn.
He didn't notice; eyes focused on another blonde girl.
His breathe caught in his throat as he tightened his grip on the fence.
He rubbed himself faster.
She wore an orange t-shirt and little cutoff jeans. Pigtails.
He rubbed even faster, panting silently in the wind, snakes and velvet gloves rustling stirring under his skin.
He narrowed his eyes and looked at the curve of her neck as she ran for a fly ball in center field.
The soft ball rolled to his feet just as he finished with a groan. Temporary relief.
She trotted over to him with a smile, and she picked up the ball.

"Hi," he said with a smile. "My name is Brookstone."

In the kitchen

I'm waiting for you.
Always in the kitchen with a beer in one hand and a cigerette in the other.
Will I see you out the window?
Or are you already in the room, in my mind?

I don't know what you look like
or what music you like
or what you like to wear

but someday
we'll stand here
leaning against the sink
naked
my hand on that spot, on your hip
your head hair in the crook of my neck
and the wind will blow through us

and I'll know I've found you.