Loganthinks

On the pavement.

Thirteen days of waiting for the suit to go on sale.

Forty-five minutes a week ripping coupons, destined for the manila folder by the door.

Sixty-five percent of the car payment saved, at ten percent of the monthly paycheck.

Seventeen thousand and change in the investment account, thirty in the Roth – occasional talks with the third broker she switched to in as many months. Weird name; Archuleta or something – too quick with the details, hidden under that British accent that has to be fake. I wonder if it gets him women at whatever bars New York stockbrokers go to.

Twelve-dollar martinis and needy women.

My grandparents died penniless in a house that was repossessed the day after Poppo went into St. Marks one last time. They said the house would be waiting happily to take care of the next family, hopefully with kids.

All that money saved.

What could it have done, outside the electronic fantasyland of capital and commodities markets. Will it be enough to keep her happy. Enough to buy her a new car, to avoid on rainy days, drive five under the speed limit, and cry at intersections in.

Maybe she will never drive, after this.

Maybe that’s her, shrieking on the cellphone by the cars.

I am lonely.

No Police yet, just her.

Maybe she will always be here now, framed in twisted metal and rubber trails.

Blurred in my oil pool eyes.