Flip-n-Flow

The drive light, splintered against my thumb, stuck up like a poor flower left by the uncle of the kid who sold pots and pans on crowded straight pavement, banging, rejoicing, the drive by of horns a honking, wild light, carving light, drive, steering wheel swathed in twisted plastic with holes, burgundy red, her lips, when wet, whet from triscuit crackers dipped in wine, high low brow, Elvis in black sequins, a turquoise ritual, a witches brew, an Apache tool, the underground sensation of finding something nothing else, nobody else, all alone, holding it, berserk because you are the only one and proud of your no-like status on all social media, no bits, no butts, all click throughs, all clickbait, clickity-clack, the train goes by with you at the station, waving to no one in particular, moving forward with feet in the same place, moving while not moving, stirring white paint for walls shared with too many for too long, kicking your feet up and down while waving them to and fro, red balloons held by mouthless children, waiting for needles stuffed with company gold, our own dread as we march through high school gyms with doctors under carved clear plastic hoodies,  administering dabs up our nose, stand up and move on, pack your bag and put it back in the closet so you won’t forget it as you wait, you won’t cry when they run down the stairs because the front door remains closed, bashed and battered with nails and tape, yellowed newspapers from a previous pandemic, taped to the refrigerator as we grab a glass of milk and sit beside the stove, warming our hands on the appliance that still works, watching the sun glide past our windows as if we could freeze it in place, just stop the sun, stop it in its tracks.

Dorian LaGuardia
November 2020