Friday, June 10, 2011
I spot the pen.
It's a blue plastic ballpoint, no cap. It's lying in the middle of the sidewalk, discarded, glistening. The morning is wet and warm as an old washcloth. The sun is up; the Dow is down. Darius's father and mother are hitting one another. Someone has no electricity and someone is heartbroken and someone is autistic and there could be nuclear holocaust or climate catastrophe or a Palin presidency.
A PEN. And maybe it WORKS.
I've gone ten steps too far but I am young and my limbs are obedient. I twist in the air, take a couple more steps, execute a graceful swoop and reach: minemineminemineminemine. I secret the pen. I stroll back to the house, retrieve whatever I forgot. I amble back to my car and, whistling, pull out into the bright and terrible world. I test the pen later, at work, and damn if that sucker doesn't write like a river, like blood, like oil, like joy.