Wednesday, March 13, 2013

mdccclviii

Things That Kill Brain Cells

     “The only ones who write like that are off the grid now,” said Gilles.
                                                                                  —Dana Ward

This broth is so good I could drink it forever.  Then I
look at the photograph of my great grandmother
(“Mombam”) and me in her rock garden.  She was
pretty short (I only now realize).  You better wake up.

I realize that I am confused.

Previously, the dog barked into my head.  The
wrong way.  Suddenly there is silence.  My hand,
my entire arm, is trembling.  A meter above my
left foot.  (I only wrote meter because it would be

funny?

to write my hand is trembling a foot above my
right foot.)  (Which is it, however, my right or my
left foot?)  (And plus Mombam was a Van Meter
by marriage).  Then I think about the 1970s.

It doesn’t matter what I do or what I say.  This,
for example, is my second double-cup of broth
(and this time it’s only chicken).  After an un-
happy moment, we enjoy the rest of the weekend.

Love is like that, I think, years later.  Whether
at Cafe du Nord watching Gravy Train perform
or paddle-boating on Stow Lake.  That’s a car.
Vvroom!  There goes a motorcycle.  It is July 1.