Six Vignettes, One About Two Attorneys

May 22, 2013 by


Looking Backwards. | New York City, March 2013 | photo

Looking Backwards. | New York City, March 2013 | photo


The well-heeled partners
cruise by the brewpub window
in their dark blue sharkskin suits, or at least,
suits I cannot afford. I’ve long admired their
well-oiled hairdos. They must cost $500
an hour, these guys, what do I know. What do I cost?
Their shoes are polished and black as a
West Virginia night out some hollow
miles off the interstate well past midnight.


Peeking at someone else’s life out the window
to take the mind off mine, all those troubles,
worries & inconveniences. Yipping at my heels
like a small nervous dog, its routine interrupted
by the arrival of today’s mail.


Nothing I do will save myself
except everything, of course. I awake
in the middle passage of the night, alarmed
by the chapter of a dream I do not like,
wishing for another book to read. Yet
all these chapters are of the same book,
its multitude of pages melting into one stream,
passing like a ribbon of sand through the
thin neck of some tall, old hourglass.


We are stuck with our stories, habits of
mind, old yarnspinners sitting round a
sputtering campfire whipped by the wind
on a cold night atop a black far mountain.
Hearing yet another tale we don’t
always understand.


A bluesman on the restaurant radio
plucks and plucks a cheap electric guitar
and sings, no exclaims, an exuberant shout
rising up from some hot delta, somewhere
very far from here.


I  light the candle once again,
a failure at going back to sleep.
And try to listen through the whistling
and roar of the waterfall.
This is the only place where it
seems possible to survive. I
look up nearly an hour later
and the white-and-black cat,
sits like a statue, curlicue tail
a question mark. Where, it asks,
is breakfast?

+ + +

Creative Commons License photos by douglas imbrogno
licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at

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