Mike Itaya

I’m Old Boy.  In the assisted living, they give me the journal, for a doodling. I write camphor, cancer. Camphor, cancer. I don’t give a shit. I’m Old Boy.  It’s Tuesday. And right off, things go bad. Somebody swiped Rundy’s anxiety candle.  “Who’s fucking with my aromatherapy?” He wants to know.  I used to drink. I don’t have the mind for it. My back’s fucked. I sleep out in the banquet hall, like a plank, waiting on them lunch ladies. I flash peepers and spot Rundy beneath the salad bar—guzzling stuff—working up to frenzy. He monograms his onesie with ranch…