A small compilation of words I’ve scribbled and typed in random places.
En route to Toronto
a heron lords over
a pond of ducks
acres of undeveloped
wild land, still young,
likely extinct farmlands
overtaken by wildflowers and grasses
trees like teens
not solid enough to
hod their stand
gone in a train ride
the greeting of car horns
prompted only by your presence
a wailing hello
or an acerbic good afternoon
She inspected the corners of the mattress while he stood in the doorway. “Some people make their beds because it looks neat or shows discipline,” she said.
He nodded his head.
“But I make my bed so it’s perfect to dive into at the end of the day. Like fresh snow, right? There’s an expanse of it, untouched, pure, and you want to make your mark in it—but it needs to be perfect. No dawdling about it.”
She punched the pillow a few more times, then smoothed it out and pulled the cover onto it.
“I don’t toss and turn in a well-made bed.”
There’s a small shrine or memorial set up fora woman who died on the curve in 1993. It seems forever ago, as if the wooden cross should be faded and worn, but someone tends to that dedication and maintains the white paint.
I wonder when the hell I’m gonna learn how to drive. When I’m gonna pass by, behind the wheel, and feel a pang of guilt for the industrious beast I control–for the fact that someone in my position killed a girl like someone killed my brother.
The county widened this stretch of road, winding through the marsh, because everyone always drive too fast. I watch my father go 60, sometimes 70, when the signs say 40. Something stirs inside me uncomfortably every time we drive through this small, lazy S-shaped road.