3848. HIT OR MISS

HIT OR MISS

Having brushed the daughter of the sky with my

hands, I looked back at the fire. No one else saw

a thing : the sky was ablaze. From where I sat, it

was all just shadows on the side of a big, white

building. A girl walked by eating candy  -  the candy

bar still in its peeled-back wrapper, she nibbled the

exposed portion with a hand to her mouth. How oddly

curious that whole scene was. Where was the

smoke? Where was the heat. I decided there

was something I much have missed. Wishing

I had a dog, I imagined walking it here.

-

I am always most curious about things most

abstract : unexplainable phenomena which

enter and ring the mind - the source of solace,

the aim of a disconsolate tear, the reason

some lone policeman would walk in fear.

-

There are no answers for things like this.

My sixth-grade memory book hides nothing

but the most obscure : John Glenn, Alan

Shepard, Gus Grissom. Crazy Amerikanski

astronauts chasing some dream-time Yuri

Gagarin to their own private Hell. Who cares,

and how far have I ever wandered. Everyone

else is dead, not one of those psychos yet

exist. Even Walter Cronkite bit the death pipe.

-

I realize I don't care, don't even give a shit.

Now sunlight hits the building-side instead :

bright, almost yellow, creeping shadow, lines

of a tree, light glinting off glass, blinding me,

two Mexican gardeners sitting around, quiet

leaf blowers finally dead in their hands.

-

This life, this life, this life, a life like this :

a crazy Mexican hat-dance

always hit or miss.