Spitball Army

She took it all too personally: when I thanked her for saying Hello, she acted terrified that she might’ve ignored me in the past.

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Covered in an icy translucent sheath, the myelinated high-wires pulsed with energy; the neighborhood twinkled with light, for now.

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Students juggled mugs and bowls to the dining hall tables while, on the snowy dorm steps, classmates sledded on cafeteria trays.

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The announcer inside the clock radio perkily voiced, “I hope your Tuesday morning is going better than mine.” That woke me up.

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Each morning the old man tells me, “My daughter will be 50 in March. She lives with us…long story, let’s just call it a stroke.”

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Hardly vigilant, the lifeguard sang hymns to himself, loudly, out-of-tune, hands flailing. Poolside, I waited for him to levitate.

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Hoy en día se me dijo, en Inglés, que mi nivel de empleo sería bastante superior si hablaba español con fluidez.

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He’d agreed to sell the artwork to a chum for $400, but after a museum proposed 450, he deemed the relationship worth the balance.

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She caught his eye, arriving after the last song, dejected. He, with guitar, sat down on the lip of the stage and sang one to her.

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The mayo in the jar was runny: he suspected his visiting mother who, in her thrift, would add water to near-empty shampoo bottles.

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