I expect to get there before anyone.
I like the grievance process, but I don’t like to complain.
My underwear remind me of childhood, but they’re not singular.
I don’t like to argue about distribution. I just want an equitable memory.
Look at my new red satisfactions. I don’t want anyone to see me without them
There’s a note on the refrigerator that says, “Harold is not the neighbor’s dog.”
The toilet bowl is clean and I don’t have any changes.
An airplane. I can hear it through the dryer vent. Which is wet.
A basket of polyester pinkie rings for the waiting salesmen. Single application
vaseline tubes. A carpet stain in the shape of an ordinary nose. Harold is not a salesman.
The holy days of Andy Devine. It must be Saturday morning. It must be a long
time ago. It must be a kind of torture.
The television asks if I have found Jesus.
So I turn it on.
The television works by turning the knobs with your fingers. Harold doesn’t.
An airplane caught in a pattern of airplanes. You’re not supposed to have to hear it
Sophie wants to know how I feel about the issues. I expect there’ll be a stain.
Harold draws a line on the chalkboard. I draw a line on the chalkboard. Sophie just
draws a line.
I cover it with vaseline. I begin listening for Jesus.
Sophie is participating in an exchange of uncertain possibilities.
I listen to her loud report.
I listen to another one.
There’s a note on the refrigerator that says, “Harold will not try to anticipate the
I listen to a voice repeating the ending.
Which allows it to continue.
Which makes it something other than the ending.
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.