Bar Song Two

George's mind whirled, flashing back to the Wednesday before last, when a young women entered his office, carrying flowers, and wearing the most hideous pink polo shirt in all of humanity.
"Sandra's Flowers"
stated the back in fat, black script.
Sandra's Flowers, for George.
George's flowers.

His birthday flowers.
As the young last, attractive enough to be so in that horrid pink shirt, handed him those sweet white carnations, he couldn't help but notice that her hands were soft and graceful, as they moved to tie her hair back, or how that said hair was richly toned with reds and browns.
And how he felt terribly

obviously,

mortifyingly,

48.

As she walked away, he open the little card with his fat old fingers.
"Happy Birthday Daddy"
it read
"Love Mary, Beth, & Joe"
48.

Do you ever, just breifly,
fatasize about being someone else?
I do. I wish I was him, or her, or the girl on the bus.
I wish I knew them, wish I understood them.
Wish I could help them, be there for their choices and their hard times.
A girl from Dubia, in all black.
A little boy in spain, playing soccer with his friends.
An artist in France, who knows all the real places, the ones tourists would never go to.

And there are days when I wish to remain so anonymous that I won't even talk to my friends.
I'll just go out in the city and chat with strangers.
I'll wander and be lost in the crowds.
By a hotdog from a guy on Portage
and tip him generously.
Run at pidgeons on the street, because I don't like them.
Sit on the back of a bus for hours, not really going anywhere.

If the world ended today, right now, what would you regret?

(not holding you enough
not being there for you enough
not taking enough risks
not smiling enough)