Hand-painted on the side of a shack we pass on the road to Ohio: what this world comin to? This is not haiku. This is more like fog and we’re socked in and your body is invisible and right across from me simultaneously. How much ammo you got? says one guy to another in the cola-chip aisle of the Food Lion. The fortitude of rain hitting the roof: percussive sadness. Almost-saved is not good enough, says the church sign. We are out of ketchup again. Did you see what he put on Pete’s grave and what he put on Junior’s? says the woman in the Bob Evans bath- room stall with a cane. It was sprained, not broken. From high up, from far away. He was still working at that bar in town, after all these years, assigned to a circum- scribed position, like the supermoon, like employee parking. In the dark 7-Eleven lot two officers approach a white van, flashlights on and held overhand. The church sign says living without God is like dribbling a football. The light—it was too bright to be captured in an iPhone photo where people are not the urgency of the present moment. Did you get it squared away? asks one man to another at the Starbucks condiment counter. One of the officers has a hand on his holster. What is he saying to the driver? The church sign touts tonight’s sermon: Entering the Miraculous Zone. There were no grounds for prosecution. I left before I heard the answer. Copyright @ 2014 by Erika Meitner. Used with permission of the author. |
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