slow motion

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There are eighteen spoons in the kitchen sink tonight. The last one—a line of flowers engraved along its silver handle—slips out of someone’s favorite coffee mug and disappears into a white-foamed ocean. Its slow motion rescue occurs in a careless fashion, clumsy fingers reaching blindly through clouded water and grasping at the wayfaring utensil as it spirals towards the drain.

Turn right out of the driveway, left on the faster road, left again towards the bare flagpole and right into a quieter place. You’ll see it, if you’re paying attention—little white house, screen door open, front porch sagging in its weary frame. An old woman sits on the last step, thankful that the evening is too cold for mosquitoes.

In her driveway, two figures stand side by side and stare down at the bare engine of a tired pickup truck. The boy wears a red t-shirt. The man wears a frown. A gray cat steps between their ankles, offering plaintive pleas for sympathy.

At night, when the sky is burning with stars, a different boy builds a fire to keep himself company. The orange glow of warmth offers a silent invitation, and soon a shaky phone flashlight is cutting warily through the smoke.

The boy pokes at the ashes with the end of a stick while his companion listens to the fire murmur comfortably. Overhead, the airplanes are humming to themselves, and the moon is nothing but a purple shadow.

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