That
was at least something he could do, for himself and for Penn--he could
help those kids. That was something, anyway.
Bells and sirens exploded in the next aisle. Jackpot. An elderly woman
stared at flashing lights, bemused, a bit bewildered. Arthur realized
that tears were running down his face, that he was both sad and
grateful, and that it was time to leave.
Four Pictures and a Flower Thief
I have these pictures--two in fog, two in sun. Fog: a man in a deck
chair is playing a trumpet, his feet on the stern railing of a ferry.
Fog: a telephone pole seen through a windshield. Sun: a young woman on
a bicycle is climbing a cobblestoned street, blonde hair bouncing,
white blouse, solid breasts. Sun: a snake falling back to the bank of a
stream, a dragonfly in its mouth, dazzling, iridescent.
Put in a certain order, riffled through, they make a silent
movie--until sounds grow more insistent. A Jeep honks twice,
accelerating past the biker, driver and passenger turning to look. She
ignores them. She doesn't notice me watching from a doorway. I suppose
my heart leaping toward her made no sound. She was locked into my blood
and bone before I knew any words for her, her name even. The shock of
recognition left me wide-eyed and strangely blind. Nothing would be
seen for itself, only in terms of her--whether she was there or not,
how likely it was that she might appear, how _not her_ everything else.
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