hands clasping down on a mug of coffee,
on a blithe morning as the sprinklers turn on
to complement the grassy dew freckled across the yard
as a glistening reminder that i haven’t cut the grass
in four months,
and my neighbors might hate me because i’m a socialist,
or because i haven’t paid my hoa dues since i moved in
I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU YOU WEREN’T ALLOWED IN HERE ANYMORE.
I THOUGHT I MIGHT TRY MY LUCK.
BOY—YOU PICKED THE WRONG PET SHOP TO STEP INTO.
I’M NOT SO CERTAIN ABOUT THAT.
The pet-store owner braced himself, gripping a mop in his white-knuckled, arthritic hands. His face scrunched up more than a sponge wrung out to dry.
YOU’RE GETTING OLD, OLD MAN. YOU MIGHT AS WELL GIVE UP RIGHT HERE AND NOW.
I’M NOT TOO OLD TO SWEEP YOU OUTTA HERE.
The boy walked out with a kitten under his shirt. The owner’s cataracts prevented him from noticing.
running from the scene of a place with no crime
in borrowed shoes with holes that have no meaning,
with small cuts all across my hand from unknown sources, unknown forces,
converging all at once and without warning,
the music stops,
there are no more chairs
Fred Aiken Writing 