Saturday, September 13, 2014

Miniature City

Waiting is a weed that promises blossoms. It endures the worst conditions, growing even near the end of the road.

In the bookstore, there’s one customer who regularly reads the last page before deciding on a book, then finds the experience spoiled: The vines are thwacked. The step-mother dies. Making his rounds, the hunter comes. Or doesn’t. 

But life’s not a peephole.

Most of the time you are the little man hunched in the snowglobe waiting for a shake. 
Here goes nothing, you say, angling into an anticipated wind.

Outside the warehouse, the bus stop bench sits in a tangle of mayweed. You lean back. If not for the search lights, these clouds wouldn’t be lit like this, from underneath.

The fields fill, and the trees and the housetops, and the chimneys choke. And the bricks turn red and there’s a heady scent of something that is not smoke.

It’s the slow city you built in a bottle that makes these blossoms possible.

1 comment:

ron hardy said...

Nice. Very, very nice.

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