How it just happens that we all have someone to make a blue tarpaulin memory with.
Even if you find them many years later and many miles away, There is a spot on this Bombay Chowpatty Where the sea is so close to you.
I pictured a man with such a long mustache that it curled around his body hundreds of times, making him look like a spool of thread. A week earlier, my father had taken me to the barbershop, where I had seen several long mustaches.
But I like my own bed best,
she says, and the quiet in mornings,
when I scatter seed for the birds,
the quiet in evenings, not at all.
That's when you should call.
Do they make the cut, or are they too inconvenient? What about rain? and never will, dismembering or in many different lights, Something huge and without music has just happened.
Jars of stunted-self languish there still,
in the half light. Stacked fat slices
of summer pear. Peeled, cleft and
without mouths, they kiss up
against the glass.
"It's perfectly perfect." She gives me a hard kiss, her full lips keeping our teeth from scraping, then follows up with a softer one, sneaking in her delicious tongue. Totally worth $1,200.
And my father angry at
traffic, always. Still they are driving
on the screen past midnight. Sometimes
we would arrive in the dark, my grandmother
in the kitchen waiting.
They were his wife’s hens, not his, he would tell anyone who listened. She was far too soft, mollycoddling any that became ill, lame, out-of-sorts. It made him jolly angry, if he ever thought about it too deeply or for too long, this attention that she gave them but not him.
With Joel playing Rip Van Winkle, I gave up on him. In the office, I dropped the mail on the desk. As I turned to go for a shower, my cell phone chirped. It was Ron Burkett, Kaufman’s publisher.
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