YOU CAN'T SIT DOWN

 Leonard told his readers that if they want to write a piece of fiction, never open up the story with a description of the weather. Fine, thought Lurk, I will open up this tale with something that Leonard said about the weather. And then Lurk lit a cigarette stub that had been crushed in an overflowing ashtray on his desk, resting there like a dry, sunbleached turd until he picked it up between the tips of his thumb and index finger, stuck a wooden match against the scratchy mortar of the brick walls that contained his office and put the flaring stick to the curled and crumpled tip of the formerly svelte cigarette. His lungs filled with the kind of smoke that coats the throat with its unique variety of briar patch harshness. Lurk coughed, he sneezed, he blew snot all over his black turtle neck sweater he planned on parading around the local house in so the babes would think him Lurk the Poetry Man and the dudes would weep into their lattes and glasses of  fresh orange juice thick with clubs of algae-like pulp,weeping becomes Poetry conquers nookie with but a whisper and the right sidelong glance. But now the black turtle neck had snot on it, glistening globs of wretched , runny mung. This won't do, thought Lurk, thinking about the weather . Then he reminded himself that the coffee shop was closed except for take out orders and the Governor said that no could sit anywhere, and that those on essential missions to get supplies needed to go home and stay there when the needed shopping was done for the day. He felt sad. There was nowhere to go but back to sleep.