Good Thoughts, Bad Thoughts

The kettle snaps to the off position,
I reach to pour my tea water.
My fingers removed from the fretboard, my mind finds its mean streak.
“Ah, but here’s the fun part…
The only fun part,” I add, despondent.
My friend looks up.
“Take a bet — how long will it last?”
He chuckles and pauses. Not invested, but game.
“Two months.”
My fingers have found the frets again.
“I mean, I wouldn’t put money on this, but 2 months.”
He heads for the doorway and mounts the stairs.
A minute passes. I fumble a transition.
“Oh!” I call out. “One month.”
“One month. That’s my bet.”
It feels hollow. I laugh, because it seems like the thing to do.
“Bad thoughts rot your meat,” I think to myself, wondering if I might be so fortunate.


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