There’s nothing ever
so absurd
as searching for the
proper word
When all is done and
all is through
any silly word will
do
It makes no
difference what is said
what gets told or
what is read
Don’t get yourself
into a rage
choosing what goes on
the page
For if you sip or
should you snort
A shot of hooch helps
your report
Nothing better helps
you choose
Than a big old slug
of Grandpa’s booze.
The thing about being
tucked away for safe keeping is remembering where (away) actually is.
As the story goes, by the time little Billy remembered he had buried his little box of treasures in the backyard, 52 years had passed. He was Uncle William now and for some odd reason he just thought about that little box.
He smiled, trying to remember what was so important. What had he put inside of that box. Then he thought about the years of rain soaking into the ground. That old cigar box has probably completely dissolved by now. It is most likely just mushy yuck.
Suddenly he remembered what was so important at the time. He remembered his autographed Micky Mantle baseball card. He had it wrapped in Kleenex, then put it into a sandwich bag, and that was double wrapped in aluminum foil. Just maybe that has survived 52 years of rain. If it did, it would be a small fortune by now.
He remembered it was
10 years ago when they had thought about having a swimming pool put in the
backyard. He was glad now they had
changed their minds.
You’d think that sometime in those 52 years of cutting the grass he would have remembered that box. It was the massive Oak tree that had put the kibosh on the idea of a swimming pool. Wait a minute… It was our last house that had the big Oak tree. It wasn’t even this yard where I buried that stupid box. Yes, I remember that yard. When I tried to bury that box, my shovel kept hitting the tree roots. What a project that was, just to dig a hole.
And
no, it wasn’t a Mickey Mantle card, I had already traded that for… I can’t remember, but it must have been
something good. I guess it could have
been Megan the hamster we buried. Gee,
my memory has more holes in it than the backyard ever did.
There was gentle guitar music coming from one of the villas. The aroma of fresh bread drifted along the cobblestones. An old bicycle, exhausted from a journey, rested against the tailor’s front window, where a dusty fedora perched a little tilted upon some foreign-looking mannequin.
A
cat, belonging to no one in particular lay in the center of the street, as if
daring someone to pass her way, her tail flicking, almost keeping time with the
guitar.
Little
did anyone know that if Giovanni's keys had not fallen from his pocket on that
day, he – upon his Vespa, would have driven over the cat’s tail, causing the cat
to yell, which would have startled the old woman just leaving the bakery, who
would have dropped her baguette, which would have rolled downhill to the
sidewalk café. There, a tourist, we’ll
call Betty, would have picked it up and thinking it was her lucky day, taken a
bite, whereupon a tiny bit of gravel would have dislodged her filling,
resulting in enough discomfort that Betty immediately began searching for a
dentist. However, not being able to read
Italian or speak it she just kept walking, right out of this story and into
some other story already in progress.
To
this day we still don’t know what became of her.
The End
What might a person
expect to see
inside a box of
raisins
but wrinkles standing
side-by-side
and smelling just
like raisins
Wouldn’t you think
Before they’re boxed
They’d iron every
one,
To look their best
We’d be impressed
It would be so much
fun.
zc
Missing within the
electronic system of communication are the finishing details. Those little touches that lend personality
and feeling. Emails shall forever lay
cold and impersonal behind the glass partition. As if a sneeze guard is required.
The art is seeing
beyond the worn luggage and ignoring the scent of despair. It is understanding and selecting the proper
footwear and when resting on any bench, never allow your fingers to wander to
the underside.
