Spitball Army

Pre-dawn shuffling amid grass, I disrupt their industry. Mites leap at my calves. Hours later I still feel them, random phantoms.

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Where there were two, one cat now remains. She wanders the house, moaning, finds a towel upon which he once slept and burrows in. – Written by @FOFOEOCOCO.

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I’ve slid syringes into oranges. I inject saline into my cat daily. But when the nurse pulls the needle on me, I turn away in fear.

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A bird, wings spread, hides face-down in the tall grass, apparent victim of a bad landing. Wild onions sprout from its still body.

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When I put the blinders on and zero in upon the task at hand, all I can think about is widening the margins.

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My boss asks to borrow the book. Months pass. I ask for it; she denies having it. Leaving work, I spy it in her car’s back seat. The book was Janet Malcolm’s Psychoanalysis: The Impossible Profession. She was a psychology grad student in a clinical internship.

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I lend him the new book before I even read it. He returns it quickly: underlined, highlighted, dog-eared. “Consider it a gift,” I tell him.

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An iron spray trellis for roses; an iron arch for hyacinth vines; iron resistance at the gym; marshalling an iron will at lunch.

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She pauses the stroller, plucks a honeysuckle, and inhales the elixir from its antenna; her child makes a mental entry in his Journal of Human Activities.

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The colorblind postal clerk shows me a sheet honoring Bill Mauldin, describing it as “the newest in the African-American series.” * Here is a photo of Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoonist Bill Mauldin: (AP file photo)

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