Spitball Army

I purchased your love letters. I blogged about you. Then, you died. Your niece googled your obituary. Now she knows your secrets.

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He loved life; she wanted him to change. That’s why they split. It’s tough to dance around the room with one foot out the door.

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I await my Unity Breakfast partners curbside, a scarce white face on MLK Day. I’m handed keys to an Escalade and asked to park it.

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If only I hadn’t been lost in Martin Eden. I glanced up as the tram door closed behind her silhouette; then the mists took her.

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Her vacation bag’s full of clothes that reek of relatives’ tobacco. Once home, she hangs them on the Quercus to billow, to purify.

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I heard he’d jumped. I didn’t know what to feel. We’d recently met again, 30 years past 12th grade. I miss him; I hardly knew him.

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The wooden steps, supple in the warm season, creak and groan brittle protests as I climb to the deck. My cold bones ache, as well.

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I’ll show you the ropes, he says to me, I can’t do this forever. I weigh his legacy vs. my dreams. He comes up short: my mistake.

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I ask the bookseller for Nikolai Gogol. Bemused, he hands me Niccolò Machiavelli. Amused, I buy Alice Walker. He looks confused.

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Colorful and crumpled balled paper floor covering. Sweeping feet and arms, he clears a path to the sofa. The ultimate gift: a nap.

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