Saturday, November 1, 2008

The Same Old Rib

Let us say that at the last moment we were all set to reveal ourselves. The car bumped down the road at night like a soda can rattling downhill. The first ghost I ever saw was lime green and played a fiddle out back near the willow tree.

I need to show you the left rear paw which was injured in an accident. The kidneys quit, a bad sign. Dried-out goldenrod in the distance reminded him of childhood in a good way.

The train conductor ordered a bagel with jam, and wondered for the thousandth time why God had created him with the capacity for second thoughts. Twelve pennies after a fire make more sense. It was late Fall, there was still time all around them.

Asleep on his back which indicated a severe fatigue. Not even the Sunday bells could be heard, so thick was the fog that day. Land-locked, she said, and the obvious sadness made his knees weak and brought thin tears to both his eyes.

I resent nothing the way I resent the processed nut industry. The town fathers gathered in an attic across town and discussed the possibility of new holidays. The weather in October is like just the right blanket at just the right time, is it not?

If that saw doesn't work, try another. He came home late, his fingers stained with ink, and told us we had lost despite all our efforts the day before. The stack of loose paper I called my novel was as tall as my son, a fact that never failed to excite him even as it made me wonder what to write next.

I heard you whispering in the backyard last night, your voice like a new blade being driven through its sheath. The roseate light was reminiscent of shoulders, the same old rib looking for home.

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