Werewolves All...

Quiet moments, still half asleep, eyes crusty from the night.

The girls vying for lap space, squirming, clutching fat blue rabbits and pink pony’s.

Let’s just talk softly for a few moments, sipping our time together, while the sun still waits in the wings.

Soon enough I’ll clean up, don my armor and striped tie to go slay the dragon, bracing for the chaos of our rock n roll ride down to the train station. You kids eager for the show.

But don’t wake up Mommy up just yet.

We’ll watch that beast roll in on steel rails like a bursting thundercloud, screaming at us, trying to intimidate.

Did it flatten your pennies? Fuse them together?

Show me when I get home tonight.

Carla will be late, always late in her stream-of-consciousness lifestyle. I’ll stand in a corner of the old brick station after the train leaves and all the other riders have gone home, cold wind gusting, pulling at my suit, trying to get inside.

Walk a block to the liquor store and another block to the bridge, a vodka crossing. Brown wingtips well-polished, prepped to navigate the varied landscapes of escalator grids and street slush.

Shaking off the homogenized world of artificial lights, canned air and office chairs, bending headlong into the wind. One hand tight on the handle of my metal briefcase, the other paw holding my collar closed, a fist with a brown paper bag sticking from one end. The dark river below, a black abyss. I can hear the deep rushing water beneath me, smell it. Hyperaware with each soggy step out in the elements, almost giddy, more excited to be alive than I’ve felt all day. Raw and real.

Distant sounds float over the top of the wind, Warren Zevon and his Werewolves approaching. 

Headlights silhouette my victory walk, shadowed against the rusting iron beams of the narrow bridge. The cab bouncing, bright with little girls, howling werewolves themselves, pink skin zipped up in flannel bunny suits. Carla driving, smelling of lavender from the bath all three had shared, equally excited, the biggest kid on board.

Warren howls on, “his hair was perfect”, he sings.

Yes, I agreed, perfect.