the meanest of all of the
what ifs. trying not to
say it much, it can’t be
unsaid. can it? “did
you find anything that
fit?” “the description?”
he sort of says with a
contorted tongue. “it’s
because he’s eaten,”
mouthed as if eating
the words he sort of
says. no colleague,
he. spies hymnal
drying under the
sun, splayed down
(spine up) in church
parking lot. “do you?”
“huh?” “park here
a lot?” gulps and half
swallowed clucks
erupt (can hurt,
being so heard)
from both sides
of the fence. “told
ya that you’d never
find me here again,”
the set of lips are
getting too close to
the barbed wire, to
the barbs, he’s think
ing; he’s piling wish
upon wish of un-
or dis-remem
brance. slow to
unclothe, he throws
his backpack off...
(slow-throws it) ... un
zips it, takes stanwyck’s
biography out, ass
uming she’s been
gone long enough –
but even the barbs
have barbs. he
should have gone
for streisand,
knows that now,
or mrs. bush, he
schemes, lop
sided bird on
top of the palm
of his brained
(the one with
which he br
ains) hand.
