Jon Loomis
Under the screen porch a cricket winds its watch, marking time like the rest of us— moon-sieve through the clouds, late summer untying its green shoes. Things are good now—our mantra these days—the children are healthy, the bills paid, the old house not entirely falling down. Things are good now, but someday they won’t be. Someday the ambulance wailing down State Street will turn at the light, and old You-Know-Who will climb out, scratch at the door. Things are good now—nice view from this dining car, but the brakes are on fire, the trestle’s washed out, and the engineer calls for more coal. For Christ’s sake, let’s take our cocktails upstairs, let’s go to bed naked and fuck in this silver rumple of moonlight while we still can, while we still want to— I’ll never be younger than this, my love, or better-looking. If there’s a God, some guy on a cloud who makes wishes come true, here’s what I’d wish for: To live in this world a while longer, but not too long. %CODE_MORE_INTERVIEWS%