Optimists
The phone book grows thinner and thinner. People vanish from photos never to return. Doors unopened for years disappear into the shrubs and flowers from the wallpaper. Centuries pass in an hour by the kitchen window. Lonely in his cabin, Columbus begins a letter: “India must be Paradise—impossible to find unless you’re dead.” Still, Columbus did find India in the same way we find the truth about our lives and rise each morning with renewed energy. Tools stand at attention by the map of terra incognita. The craftsman flips the hourglass: every grain of sand falls like a stone.
Out of Breath
I’m always a little late for the goings-on in my life. This is why I’ve never landed a decent job, never had a full meal. I’m just not around when the big decisions are made. I arrive out of breath and a little peckish, just in time to see the bus pull away from the depot. If I had a car, I’d follow it out of town to make sure you didn’t get off, that I wasn’t the one waiting for you, stop after stop, with nothing to offer, nothing to say.
Appraisal in Autumn
We sit in the park, and we’re not happy. Cold wind, no money, and God only knows what else is hanging by a thread over our heads. The prognosis for winter is gloomy. We asked for too much: the moon and stars instead of bread and milk, the best gun. Life is quite simple, a question of hit or miss. Moonlight seeps through a hole in the clouds. We go in circles like carousel horses at the amusement park. Back in the casino, grandmother is working the slots, trying to beat her despair.
Endless Plains, Clouds
“Don’t you see?” she says. “Our life is broken.” And points to the Ming vase lying in pieces on the floor—high, blue-and-white plains, distant lakes, patches of snow. Above timberline, lit wires vibrate through holes in the clouds, keeping the earth steady. A gust of wind ripples the heather and flushes a grouse at my feet. “What a mess,” she says, and goes to fetch the vacuum.
The phone book grows thinner and thinner. People vanish from photos never to return. Doors unopened for years disappear into the shrubs and flowers from the wallpaper. Centuries pass in an hour by the kitchen window. Lonely in his cabin, Columbus begins a letter: “India must be Paradise—impossible to find unless you’re dead.” Still, Columbus did find India in the same way we find the truth about our lives and rise each morning with renewed energy. Tools stand at attention by the map of terra incognita. The craftsman flips the hourglass: every grain of sand falls like a stone.
Out of Breath
I’m always a little late for the goings-on in my life. This is why I’ve never landed a decent job, never had a full meal. I’m just not around when the big decisions are made. I arrive out of breath and a little peckish, just in time to see the bus pull away from the depot. If I had a car, I’d follow it out of town to make sure you didn’t get off, that I wasn’t the one waiting for you, stop after stop, with nothing to offer, nothing to say.
Appraisal in Autumn
We sit in the park, and we’re not happy. Cold wind, no money, and God only knows what else is hanging by a thread over our heads. The prognosis for winter is gloomy. We asked for too much: the moon and stars instead of bread and milk, the best gun. Life is quite simple, a question of hit or miss. Moonlight seeps through a hole in the clouds. We go in circles like carousel horses at the amusement park. Back in the casino, grandmother is working the slots, trying to beat her despair.
Endless Plains, Clouds
“Don’t you see?” she says. “Our life is broken.” And points to the Ming vase lying in pieces on the floor—high, blue-and-white plains, distant lakes, patches of snow. Above timberline, lit wires vibrate through holes in the clouds, keeping the earth steady. A gust of wind ripples the heather and flushes a grouse at my feet. “What a mess,” she says, and goes to fetch the vacuum.
