Box Seats


The operatic foreplay assumes the winter was cold enough to freeze bricks. It seems
when I wasn’t looking, the chalice fell from the clerestory into the oceanic lilt of the
priest’s veneer. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I suspected it.
One reads about sick children who study their lessons anyway.
That winter the snow was deeply jilted by the overcast mufflers the sky was saving
for a more extravagant display.
The story line had something to do with a Viking or a dead parishioner and some
revenge notes passed around the drinking fountain.
Baby Marvin was not prepared for the religious expectations placed upon his
sexual performance by the atmosphere established in the visiting priest’s implied sermon.
The wine stain wasn’t very pretty either.
Finally the portentions of snow were escorted to the lobby. Marvin’s mother was
serving popcorn to the usherettes. She didn’t know about the box seats. (One reads about
mothers who protect their children from imaginary dangers.)
“Next time I’ll wait till you can come with me,” said Marvin’s silk boxer shorts.
The Viking was singing very very loudly. Marvin knew it was a climax, but would it be
followed by a resolution?
Baby Marvin wanted to go to a big noise with overtones of conquest. The attentive
fanatic might conclude the opera assumes the mother was cold enough to take him there.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.