Here he comes, a little wobbly. I knew him before when his step was steady enough. Steady enough that you’d never believe it would be as wobbly as this in no time at all, a handful of years. I spoke with his girlfriend back then. I don’t think there’s one now, but there might be. Just not one for public viewing, one tucked away maybe, where a wobbly man can find her. Anyway when I talked to the girlfriend I know for sure existed, the one from the past, when I spoke with her, she told me she really liked him, that he was a grown-up. That he wasn’t one of those men who needed a mother. I was impressed because I needed a mother. She was full in the hips that girlfriend, sexy in a can-do way. I like a can-do way you know, but it can be frightening. She had the way without the bells and whistles. Here I am, a woman. She was sexy in that kind of way, if you know what I mean. She was short, not too short. Just short. Is there a too short? Just so you know, I’m not saying there is. Anyway, shortish with the hips, plain spoken, intelligent. The kind of woman I’d like to meet now that I don’t want a mother so much.
The young man is from a small town, not the romantic Americana version, not John Mellencamp’s version. Or maybe it was and he didn’t notice. But couldn’t this or something like it be said of all of us, inhabitants of small and big towns alike? You see what you see for the time being. And then that shifts, and you see something else. I’ve heard it referred to as travel. After a while you may get downhearted and not want to see much of anything, or you might swing the opposite way where your eyes and heart get so big, you can no longer measure the size of the town or anything else, and perception zeros in on no particular thing, just roams in easy pleasure across a landscape without a border. This border-less joy is not known to the young man, or perhaps it is known but he is forgetful, and like a person who can never remember where he left his keys, the young man likewise loses track of his uninterrupted happiness, which you may think is hard to do, but is it?
Every time a bra strap is adjusted, I plumb the depths of meaning. You call this exaggeration but you are in the other body. The view’s not clear from there either. We inhabit the same smoke and this touches us. From this touching the yarn is spun. Look at it as sweet mist. Wrap it around your unknowing. Have me hold the other end.
Huddle of girls almost squashed together, diligently working, not sullen, purposeful. Arms above their heads, holding the great plate, the saucer of good size from which later, water is due to rise. I want to get to know them. It might be possible. In a way I cannot properly describe, we are already friends. They are made of stone. That’s a fact. There are three of them. I hear three is a number that matters. No combination of numbers has yet to deliver me.