Twenty First Century-and-then-some Transcendentalism – Connor Davis

It’s all so beautiful but I am as separate as a ghost. 6 o’clock mid September brilliance. A gentle breeze. Sweet air. Warmness. Coolness. Sky clay blue and the hint of a tinge of white orange. Neighbor to the left is smoking. The smell cuts through both airs. I think about peeking over the fence and asking if he feels it too but I know he would never admit he did if he did.
The cushions are a bit crusty just from the years. They are warm though and feel good to drag my hand across. My socked feet perch up on the fire pit because spiders and other creepy crawls would nip at my ankles otherwise. Then I would spend all night scratching like a dog with my cocaine-length big toe toenail until the skin over the tendon of my back foot started to bleed and I would feel its wetness seep under the toenail and into my sheet and blanket and then it’s just another thing. I shake my head. I sip my tea. Chai tea with some sugar and some lactose free milk. My stomach seems to like the absence. I remember that I have a dog. I call her name and she comes. I pet her. Scratch behind her ears. Under her chin. She stares back at me like I am the most benevolent of gods. I am her Athena and she is Odysseus in the backyard. A squirrel on the fence pulls her eyes away from mine and she darts to the fence and barks. Begone vermin. She looks back to me, her eyes asking for approval. I smile and up my thumb.