We burst out my front door like freed inmates, like the guys in Cuckoo’s Nest. We’re both a little fat to be running this much. There are cigarette burns on my arms that glow in the sodium lights over West Central; we do not think we will ever have health insurance. We lie in the street, drunk and laughing, like we're already waiting for the coroner. You say something in French and I say “what’s that mean?” “So far, so good.” “So far, so good.” We do not think we will ever quit any of it, neither one of us.
J. Caleb Duarte is a Massachusetts-based poet and short fiction writer. Instagram: @jcalebduartepoet