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04
24
05
Invention


«« past   |   future »»

Sunflowers in the yard of our twelve-story,
post-war subsidy reach over the old
shrubbery. A man and his boy planted

bulbs—it seems days before. Single father—
half-smile, -grimace, a well-intentioned Stetson—
evokes: virility, steadfast libertine—

Indiana Jones—single. Stupid hat.
No man should affect one. His dog-sized boy
digs ruts in the landfill. Sixty wretched

tenements (rag-picker's alley) leveled
for our cooperative. The Orthodox
cop, always a straight black tie with a gold

clip, jangles his keys in the elevator,
murmurs the planter is a fresh widow,
garnered permission to garden. Orthodox

cop is fiction—a little General,
beard obsessively trim, pants creased. Spends nights
fussing over his white sedan with a red

siren on the dash. His doughy teenage
son terrified of our toothless mutt. Phobic.
Runs away at fifty yards or frozen,

screams in a high-pitch. The Dog and I tethered
by six-feet of candy-apple nylon.


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post #84
bio: john ball
perma-link
4/24/2005
11:01

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