he was holding a handkerchief in his hand,
throwing it up in the air, not paying attention as it slowly collided
with particles of dust, floating downwards while
the glare of the sun fell appropriately on the porch.
chewing on celery,
his thick, pointed teeth full of salivated green stalk,
he rested his knees on the step below him,
and read.

i couldn't tell if he was actually paying attention to what he read,
or if he was just trying to keep out of conversation.
it was one of his bathroom books, late back to the library.
dostoevsky, yellow pages, dog-eared.
someone else's coffee stains.

i remembered not finishing that book.


people were using the grill outside,
talking about the weather,
squeezing lime into bottles of beer
and touching each other's shoulders.
commisserating over tired backs and complimenting outdoor decor.

i was thinking that eventually,
everyone becomes their parents.
whether or not you call a barbeque a party.

he must have been a slow reader,
his eyes stayed glued to the same page for several minutes,
but would occassionally glance up and frantically dart
his pupils across the faces in front of him.
twice he looked at me, raised eyebrows.

funny how you spend so much time with a person
without the satisfaction of bearing witness to their own private judgement.

i figure mind-reading is overrated anyway.

i was curled up on a red milk-crate
poking holes in my hamburger bun
while everybody else got sloppy-speeched
and overzealous with their corncobs.

and he read dostoevsky.

07/25/2007

Posted on 07/25/2007
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