Two gentlemen, quite older than I
were heard discussing their school days, which
passed long ago, on a street corner
in the middle of winter. Gloved hands
stuffed deep into pockets while icy breath
escaped through their scarves. Thick wool stocking caps
and their heavily lined coats combined
to make them appear as larger beings
than they were underneath it all.
“Did you have Miss Boggs?” One of them asked.
The affirmative reply slowly
pushed dark, frozen winter particles
through the frigid night, like a ship clears
frozen ocean for more lucrative
and significant cargo pieces.
The first shuddered as he carefully
weighed his response against the late frozen
Darkness. “She always made me so–tense.”
The conversation seemed frozen, right there
on that dark corner, in winter air.
The words nearly solidified, with no
Response, no recognition aside
my own.
And I began to
contemplate my past and my
Miss Boggs. My ninth grade science
teacher. She always made me–
made us all–so tense. Tension
I remember, which often
would be broken by short skirts,
white blouses, or tight sweaters. She knew what to do to grab
the attention of a room
half filled with tense pubescent
boys (and that of the pretty
young health teacher down the hall).
We could, by degrees, attend
to this and that presence. I
however, remain unable
to explain how chemicals
can react with chemicals.
past
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Among the skinny trees one stands out for no reason whatsoever. Neither as wide nor as tall as its siblings and mates, it extends from the picturesque forest floor, sprints toward an azure sky, stopping just short. One of the last winds of Autumn (is this the last wind of Autumn?) swirls about reluctant to put itself to bed; working to outlast the season like children on bicycles in middle September at dusk as the sun sets a bit earlier. If the sun even sets at all.
Booth Scene, on a Thursday
Laughter, sustained, hangs stale in the air about the cushioned corner booth like curtains of left behind cigarette smoke from way back, when time was different; like some forgotten acquaintance, seen in the wrong place at the wrong time. A casual wind carries leaves, trash, newspapers, and voices from the past, brushing aside this haze while bringing specks of an old earth, time forgotten. Time more likely unknown to those staring, swiping litter and leaves with casual shoes. Desultory movement, slowly searching empty skies, streets, Thursday scenes and other conversations for anything to happen next.
