One Small Act #1

keyboard flowerpot
do 25 pushups on the office floor
then press your face
against a windowpane
in any corner of any corridor
where light
however dim
traces
the shape
onto your skin
of the orangework clock
(juice tick
pulp tock)
you are
 

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2 thoughts on “One Small Act #1”

  1. I was glad to. After all,
    it would be just him and me in the cab
    together for eight whole hours,
    talking. He’d been away at college
    for four whole years, text-messaging
    every now and then, and now
    I expected some full sentences.
    That was the deal. In return
    we’d use my credit card and I would drive
    him and all his worldly possessions
    home. Somewhere around Delaware
    the mirror on the passenger side
    starting turning inward against the wind
    and I couldn’t see, and it wouldn’t
    stay when we opened the window
    and readjusted it. I told him
    to take off his shoes and give me his laces,
    and I’d pull over and tie the mirror
    to the antenna to keep it from drifting.
    He asked me why his shoes and not
    my shoes? It was a good question,
    the kind of question you might debate
    in a sociology class in college
    if you were still in college. But we were
    speeding down I-95 in a U-Haul
    with one functioning mirror, a resourceful
    father at the wheel, a credit card
    in his pocket, his thumbs keeping time
    to an old-fashioned song in his head
    that only he could hear, and a son
    drowning out that song now, turning
    the radio on. Loud. Louder. Silently
    bending down to untie his shoes.

    “U-Haul” by Paul Hostovsky

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