sweet bob

    Sweet Bob sat down at his little round table by the window and edged a slice of pizza out of the box. Grease landed on the red table cloth. He watched it being absorbed. His mother had given him the table when her diner went out of business. Probably still gum on the underside.

    Outside, wind tore at the trees, the streets seemed lined with gold in the white moonlight. His garden was old and bruised, buried under wet leaves. Gardens are hopeless, Sweet Bob thought, that’s why everyone buys perfumed bouquets from Charlie down on Main.

    Sweet Bob combed his hair back carefully, set down the comb, then opened his top drawer. An empty onw. He put the comb in and shut it, turned away from his reflection. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, “I’m a man of simple pleasures,” he smiled to himself, glancing back at his reflection, “I’m allowed to have empty drawers.” And he crawled into his small cot and pulled the wool blankets up to his chin.

    Black sheep fumbled in his dreams, in the city streets, pushing out deli doors, crowding department stores, clumping around the stray dogs, curious, sniffing. Taxis honked but weren’t heard, and as the sheep accumulated, the taxis shrunk to the size of toy cars.

clinging like loneliness



the TV plays late.