Thursday

Maybe a couple out of the group would attain
some kind of glory on the pool table or on the dance floor.
Chris had the best chance of walking out of the bar
with a new lover.
Some unwary thing who could not decipher
the disaster palpable on Chris's person
would stagger out into the night with him.
Chris would be gone for hours, maybe days.
He would turn up eventually with wounds,
like slices about the wrists
or scratches on his face or a black eye
or with a brand new set of clothes.
Or he'd come up to somebody and say,
"Come back to my place,
I gotta show you something,"
and there would be a mural
or an entire wall of his apartment
painted in such a way
that all a person could do
is just sit down in front of it
and take it in and try not
to go immediately insane as
Chris walked around sucking desperately on a joint.
He would pace behind nervously,
like he was pacing next to the body of person he'd just killed.

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