We had finished lunch at Arby’s.
Then took me to his place, which was his parents’.
A lovely home decorated in northeastern Americana
heavy on the light houses. 

His bedroom looked like the bedroom of a twenty-year-old
who lived with his parents
and attended a university a fifteen-minute drive away.
Ten minutes longer than his commute to high school.

But what’s he really going to do? I imagine that he’ll spend the next three to eight months furiously beating his knob to a pulp jerking it to footage from the 1968 Democratic National Convention riots in Grant Park. You know, back when Chicago was a city he could get behind. One where the police policed. Maybe he’ll spend his days eating Arby’s sandwiches hoping to find a finger in his food. His finger.