Zucchini

In the night beyond last call, he walks along the road, the world in outer space darkness, his brain a sputtering top from drink. Passes another man, other than the occasional passing car, the only sign of life. The man wears jeans, a white shirt, stops, his dead fish eyes, says, grilled zucchini, walks past. Excuse me, he’s seeing him walk away, what was that? The man didn’t stop, so he followed him and as he picked up his pace to a jog, so did the man. Hey, did you say, grilled zucchini? The man stopped, turned to face him. Yes, grilled zucchini. So, what does that mean? It means, grilled zucchini. Do you like it, not, or what? That’s got nothing to do with it. You’re intoxicated. So are you—again, nothing to do. He stood shaking his head, a cool breeze kicking from the west, spinning turning to aching. Snow’s coming, the man said. It’s June. I didn’t say today. I need to go, he said, I need to walk. Grilled zucchini, the man said. Perhaps we could agree to disagree, he said, before I go on about the Buddha on the road. You’ll remember, won’t you? How could I forget? Into night, points in an expanding universe, endless road.