Spitball Army

You’ll be better off, she said. Turn that down, she said. It’s the same every time, she said. Don’t mix beer and wine, she said.

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Listening 101: As she hands me my sandwich – ordered as “no ketchup, please” – she asks me, “Would you like ketchup with that?”

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Approximate playing time: 78 minutes.

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Lawnmower churns a snowdrift of fallen dogwood blossoms into uneven layers of makeshift hoarfrost. Winter: it just hangs in there.

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He raises a hand from beneath the small spider until it comes to a gentle rest in his palm. Then, with the other, he crushes it.

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“The Hustle” on MP3: 99 cents. The irreversibly grounded sensation one gets while dancing to a disco song as it fades out: free.

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Wearing my late father’s t-shirt: comfortable, soft, not at all like his sun-leathered skin. His smell has been washed out of it.

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Azalea bed beside the mailbox: a layer of rubber bands, no new ones. In the days before social media, my mail needed unbridling.

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On break from the bedside watch, he took a weed-eater to the back where the tall weeds were, and the hiding bunny, now cut in two.

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I’ve slid syringes into oranges and injected saline into my cat. But when the nurse pulls the needle on me, I quake like an aspen.

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