An Exercise in Not Caring
Photo by Deborah Guzmán
A black Mustang in a semicircle driveway screams, "Look at me! Wonder where I've been!" A fantasy of keys flashing against skin: would they know it's me? Slashed tires, dirt on panel, send me a sign that you're miserable.
A folded paper on my desk radiates light that seems to whisper rejection. I scoop the words into my mouth. Enzymes from my liver break down meaning. Later, I'll see that light coming off my sweat.
A breaking memory will be saved in bubble wrap. I'll place it in the den. Although I'll pass it every day, I will not see it.