I probably read more “daily news”
when I was five years old than I have
in recent months. It
is for certain a
lousy job I make some days of even
occupying myself. I
try to encourage
a little unusual. I
waft through trivia
in a daze; but in an attempt to rise
to the top like cream.
Towards
evening, I have a few moments
strictly to myself.
If I place the
device upside down my gizzard
still beeps. Denied
such attention,
my upright furniture is more emotive.
The end is reasonably ambivalent
though assuredly not helping. But
the drizzle is equivalent to an erst-
while gasoline, as it seeps through
pores (hidden to the naked eye) in
the device, even if said device is
secure in its intricate, protective
web. I probably read
about this
seepage at age seven or eight,
perhaps at one of many a quilt-
ing bee. Was I ever
astonished
by the prevalence of this look-
ing backwards (time-wise, for
example, at a collage of broken
bells) to discover the mundane
truths of the present?
Not
particularly. I held
on to the
reins as the colt sped through
a forest of brambles.
I’ve no
scars to remember this by,
only a whisper the wind
sometimes revels in repeat-
ing, and the brassy bark of
a dog that always lives a
few floors down or across,
has followed me from city
to city, apartment building
to apartment building, year
to bygone year.
