After Dinner

On the way home from birthday dinner I look for the blood on the footpath. It's dry. Noonie mentioned it before. It has followed the crevices in the concrete and pavers but there's been too much to be contained in those straight lines, and it's spilled over into spidery organic forms, like an Olsen painting. A chopper hovers and I feel anxious and 34 until I reach the park, empty except for the moon holding in the rain. I'm hiding out in the big city blinking.