A Match for the Keyhole
styrofoam boxes from diners where we contented ourselves with too much food and the dependable noise of crowds. (how did we get here. how will we escape. why do happy people’s lives seem so obvious and far away.) That line is what I would think about at night under the glow of Chinese lanterns and dishwasher steam. when the dark and the line melded together like figures in a purgatory hallway or what you see when you bend over. and look inside a well. I would ponder the line. ways to pull wine rings from of glasses. Ways to get revenge. The artifacts, slightly moved but mostly left alone, like leftovers on an adolescents' dinner plate. The clang of inarticulated words against throats that were now hiding in my books. In the attic.
Sometimes you would see them, you said, across the street. In the way I picked at hangnails. By the creak of the chair in the kitchen at night. I would blush with the resentment of empty bedrooms and picture frames and curse cheap pencils with bad erasers.
I always wondered if it mattered. that I didn’t remember them in good ways much at all. Or that at the beginning of winter I had broken one of their bedframe’s in the yard. or that I tried my best to sell what they left behind in 25 cent bins at garage sales with the cheap pencils.
It was fun and I was angry.