Thursday, October 6, 2022

it was like this


Dear Reader,

A sort of a story for you today, which I hope will amuse you.  I hope it will be a nepenthe for your weariness and sorrow.

part one:

There was a concrete driveway that sloped away from the garage- it met a large pool of macadam.

It was not a lone Victorian with lace curtains.

part two:

I was not an orphan, in a high garret.  

I lived on a high plain, far from everyone; and I had a radio.  A large, 1950's one, with a lot of beguiling veneer.  Late one night, listening close, and secretly, I heard pilots and static.  Another time, I heard Language is a Virus, and it opened a wide space of possibility.

part three: 

This is maybe not yet written.  It might go like this:  They moved away.  They packed up a big, black automobile, and they moved.  They left a lot of broken dishes and a rusted screwdriver.  They left a worn down broom and a broken umbrella.  They left a hole where a camellia bush had grown.  They left a sprinkler.  They left some bent wire hangers.  They left two receipts and a torn photograph of a woman on a horse.  They left a photo of a man waving from an ocean liner.  They left a cassette tape and a bottle opener.  They moved.  Away.  They packed up.