There's something lonely about a dog that won't eat.
I sat with too many lights out, in a house two sizes too big, counting the things I could be doing.
I thumbed through my list of sponsors, well-wishers, twits, and friends with real problems.
Ultimately closing my ancient brick phone with a prodigious clap and deciding I didn't really want to bother anyone with this leper sense of impotence and shame.
I could go get a pack, a case, a fifth.
Chat up a six.
Problem solved.
I could stop rubbing my elbow, worrying away the twitch.
I could lay down another full house.
Jack of spades.
Queen of blades.
Or I could wittle another year away.
Cloistered behind a cardboard fortress.
Secret. Safe. Terrified of the rising sun, turned keys and ticking clocks.
The tiny clicks that expose us.