A little space here
which I have walked into
where love resides but lies hidden,
gathers dust. A quiet space
where love resides but relaxes
and changes its clothes.
I can’t make it out.
The light is uncomfortably dim,
but comfortable almost in the non-knowledge
that love resides,
that it rests in a chair, which squeaks,
and carries on its business.
Answers letters, pays bills,
A small space,
but freedom to move,
and a window, thankfully, hopefully,
upon the world.
[Full disclosure: this is poem #6 in a series of poems mentioned here.]
Two guards: one thin and quick, the other large and impassive. The quick one leafs through my passport, asks about plans, business dealings. He pockets my passport, smiling cruelly. The big one sighs, retrieves my passport for me and lets me through.
[This is my alternate answer to this week’s Yeah Write microstory challenge]
Who is it tonight? The quiet one, all darting eyes and monosyllables? The bore, spouting barely understood scientific theories? The smiler and nodder? The nerd? Maybe, just maybe, the interesting one?
Which version of myself showed up?
Oh, right, the distracted one.
You can’t fix a person like you can a car. Take this fuel pump. I just went down to the auto supply store and bought it. For a car, the fuel pump is like its heart, right? And you can’t just take someone’s heart out and put in a new one.
Well, yeah, nowadays you sort of can. But you know what I mean! Continue reading Broken
The 6-year-old teeters on the edge of the couch, gravity-defying plastic bag wings outspread. The 9-year-old folds her arms and declaims the stupidity of the enterprise. The 42-year-old enters and pauses, not sure whether to shut down the equation or just watch.
David was nearsighted. At the age of twelve he received his first pair of glasses. He carried them in a case in his backpack, and when the teacher wrote something on the chalkboard, he retrieved them discreetly and placed them on the bridge of his nose. If possible, while taking notes, he kept his left hand on his glasses in order to take them off as soon as the teacher stopped writing on the board. He hated his glasses. Continue reading X-Ray Vision
“Here, read this. Forty-two words.”
“Okay…” She reads. “I like it, but I don’t get where it says ‘explicably’.”
“I meant ‘inexplicably.'”
“Did you get that it’s at a hospital?”
“Oh! No…” She reads again. “His leg is missing?”