By Ben Greenman
from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled
Feet up on the couch, soda on the table next to him, sun dappling the opposite wall, recollection of the night before resting on him with a pleasant pressure, old song on the radio—it was not very old, not as old as it was, in fact, sounded maybe ten years old at most, when it had come out thirty years ago it had sounded like the future, had in fact been the future, right down to the stabbing guitar and skittering drums that stabbed and skittered like nothing had back then but like everything did now—he closed his eyes and felt a contentment that had no place in the modern world.
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