We come home from the New Romanticism conference a little inebriated, a little wet behind the ears.

The furniture crafted by students from the college was a nice touch.

A painting of a stunt dog in the hotel foyer kitty-corner from a giant fern.

Climbing a mountain because it’s there versus the urge to call or not call an ex from the summit.

“It was a prop hand emerging from the avalanche, not the real thing.”

The creaking woods rife with bad movies.

The stepfather left a leaf blower idling in the corner.

Some people go their whole lives without saying, “Hello, America. Good morning!” 

We are some people.

Savannah says I’ve become “buddy-buddy” with the train conductor.

Ann’s jam was rollerblading to her voice coach’s office.

The anchoress can’t toss her cable bill in the river like we do.

You brushed away the crumbs from my face and I owe you one.

Neer, neer.

In one room, self-help audiobooks piped through a wall of seashells (Hello? Hello?).

Next door, a slideshow of the empty plains of North Dakota.

Paul on horseback is how bad news is delivered.

Cute asses in literature and car rental stories.

An hourly psychologist folds her legs and talks loudly on a mobile phone.

I look at home in a windbreaker and beige hat.

The best man’s speech was voted the best thing about the wedding: he gestured like a flight attendant at an employee             training video.

There didn’t seem to be any law against it.

Immediately you thought of Steely Dan’s biggest fan, his plastic fangs.

A beer bought for me while a teenager turned into a monster on TV.

Over a bridge I carried your Mona Lisa.

The ghost man on second stealing signs, trying to start shit at the charity softball game.

Many arms up in the air at this point.

We’re listening to our hearts, the only advice TV psychics and extended relatives like to give.

We risk the river, odds hidden, sticking our hands into actual earth.

There is a squash court in Gilead.

We’re gonna make it.