Spitball Army

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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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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