She’s never been out of the country,
but she has seen enough TV to be able to describe
in perfect detail the way lost relatives drink for free in Mexico.
Or the time she fell in love with two businessmen on one of those
streets in Paris where the weird lift their glasses instead of turning pro.

Thank God the dead don’t mind
when you borrow their best intentions.

No one has ever even seen her leave town,
but she’s very likely to kill anyone who doesn’t believe
her story of going from here to Reykjavik and back
on an unbelievable overnight of pure faith touching
the mind of the desperate the way lightning cures disease.

She had a husband from 1979-1982. People don’t feel sorry
for him anymore. It’s assumed he went for a walk
and never got out of the woods alive.

Her children get by on huge toy cars
and cannibalism in the abandoned mall outside of town.

The mayor sends willing tourists in there all the time
because some people just don’t want
to go to San Francisco every summer for the rest of their lives.

Her backyard makes for one hell of a stage made stunning
by more history than actual, physical beauty.

It’s not uncommon around these parts for the deranged
to buy their time by dancing in the snow. She likes to get a three-month
lead. Sometimes she does such a good
job that you can see her fingers and hair turn blue.

That’s quite a sight on a September afternoon,
and it’s a nice contrast to see that and then walk three blocks down
to a softball game that will continue until someone finally turns
thirteen and has a change of heart.

Hard to know for sure when that will happen.
People here are stubborn, deeply protective of what
all this might mean in ten thousand years. That’s assuming
the accountants from the fifth dimension have deep enough pockets
to keep it all rolling.

Either way people here look after each other.

That’s why our priest just stays home
and prayers for her.

Rather than calling the out-of-town authorities.

07/22/2010

Posted on 07/22/2010
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard