Virtual Deer Hunter

The man on the train beside me is a virtual deer hunter. He turns his phone, lines up the buck and fires. The bullet moves in slow motion towards the target. The blood sprays; the animal collapses in a death spasm. The man moves to another target. He chooses a deadlier assault rifle for the next hunt. He shoots his cannon at bears, wolves, elk and moose. The results are always the same. He takes phony contracts for quick kills. Piles of carcasses amass on his smartphone screen. His score goes up, death by death, digit by digit. More kills, more virtual animals, more virtual bodies. His screen has me thinking of death and distraction. I recall a childhood moment as we move. I am in the woods of Pennsylvania. I have a rifle in my hands. I walk softly through the brush. And a doe peers through the trees at me. Her eyes dark and glassy. Her mouth chewing food. We stare for an eternity before I take aim at the sky. I shoot one bullet into the air. The doe careens off into the forest. And I go home a happy virtual hunter. Without a single kill to my name.

In the Wake of the Train, Colors like Speckled Bands

In the wake of the train, the colors appear like speckled bands. They gleam like patio lights, strung from awning to fence to table set. Lined across the blackened tunnel, I see sets of green and red, like Christmas. I see blue bulbs, like waiting eyes. I see red circles, like stop signs. Then, I see the white eyes of you, behind. You follow in the dark, along the rails. You do not stretch from side to side. You come dead ahead and cut the colors cold with your white hot stare.

Sunday Night Dropoff

I drive to the usual dropoff spot on Sunday. The children laugh, discussing the day behind us. I turn the car down a side street to hear them giggle, just a little bit more, to ease the depart ahead. Often, I dream of driving past the appointed spot. Just driving south, away, to the highway. I see dark water fishing, underneath the lights of a drawbridge. I see jet travel rising, above the lights of a runaway. I see a family in a warm house to the north, sitting before the light of a fireplace hearth. But, tonight, I am in a car for dropoff. I turn into the lot, pick a spot, and wait. The familiar fast food grease turns my stomach. The reappearing oil slicks blacken my feet. The incessant buzzing spotlight makes me feel like a creature on a wheel, in a cage, with absolutely no escape. We hug. They leave. I go. And my car and I drive back from where we came, in the dark, on the road, and utterly all alone.

Wake

Ivy and shrubs grow below the oaken funeral home doors. A gold knocker and knob waits for tapping and turning. Crimson carpets trimmed with gold leaflets, flow through flowered-scented rooms. The shoes keep treading across worn floors. A clock keep ticking and chiming in the corner. Coffins are life buoys, for some wake-goers. They anchor the arc of procession. They come in all makes and models. I remember oak, pine, cherry and ash. Titanium keeps out more moisture below the dirt. As I walk by a body, though, I remember too much. I move away from lines, cards, and mechanical head nods. They all fade into custom and ritual and rite. My mind is left with the dead. My thoughts go below ground to the grave. My eyes raise up to memories, of good and bad times, far away from funeral homes, when friendly faces said hello, and walked down long corridor hallways, and into offices, for eternity.

Wingtips

My wingtips slip across the sidewalk. I scuff the bottoms on cement. My feet scrape curbs, like a penned bull. I belong in hiking boots and sandals, not penny loafers. My toes and heels detest patterned dress shoes. I remember wearing my cleats and wrestling boots. My closet still has my trainers and construction boots. I wish to wear something else, right now. My soles crackle underfoot. The grains of the street sound my coming. The grit of the asphalt echoes in my ears My wingtips click like nine inch heels. I slip and scuff and wish to walk in different shoes. I lower my head and ignore my noise. My wingtips must be worn to the ground.

Bottled Day

I walk a circled path under the trees. A light breeze touches my forearms and face. It is October, and an autumn sun warms my skin. People circle with me, soaking in fall sun skies. Green leaves rustle on their living branches. Only a few have started to tumble down, to the ground. It is warm, and colder, breezier days will follow. These are the days to bottle before long. Today is one to capture for winter winds. To hold it close to mind, as snow and ice form. Frosts are not so distant from us now. We await the yearly coming of the cold. But today, the fall looks back to summer, and prepares us for departing leaves, with a memory of a perfect bottled day, to keep us circling along the path.