Spitball Army

From a box of things, the long-sleever fits. I wear it to work, musing that I’d rather have Dad present than his perfect shirt.

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Vintage postcards from antique malls and yard sales get scanned as blog entries, annotated, then used as bookmarks in his library.

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Miss Thing leads me to a table, her two-inch claws ten shades of brown, with glitter. My BBQ plate, by comparison, is a flat Sienna.

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Leagues below, grasses sway in cilia motion, vacillating, turning gray. At the surface, oil doublets waltz in a widening crescent.

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Two hours in, I survey the five laundry piles waiting and the wine rack in the next room. Three sheets to the wash or to the wind?

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We talk about my cats, 15 years old, aged, sickly, how I’ll handle their certain fate. We talk: she, my 77-year-old mother, and I.

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Yardwork day, excavating rocks, daydreaming. He piles the stones into a cairn, pretending the yapping mutt next door lies beneath.

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Time to leave for home, she dashes resistingly into the stacks. An empty shelf is a perfect hideout, next to Hoyle and Lasker.

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Organizing music books: Beatles > Dylan > artists, alphabetically > genres > regions > music biz > anthologies > jazz > classical.

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My social media avatars: Young Me, Drawn Me, my literary ideal. But the damned mirror shows my true place on the entropic timeline.

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