Spitball Army

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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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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MER Y CHRIS AS announces the flashing LED sign beside the Alabama gas station. FRI D PICKL S $1.00

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I see how little kids might find you creepy, she says between potluck bites, referencing his age and name-checking Santa Claus.

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