The police throw their enemies out of windows. At least that’s one explanation offered for the lost pets, the missing children. When I look back over my shoulder, I only see old, lost, broken things, mysteries where there are none, faces I can’t identify.

People who grew up here exchange glances. There has been a lot of drinking. Some of the men claim they can taste tears in the wine. I was just about to ask them, “What advice do you have for young people?”

Everyone is sick of dealing with the obstinacy of objects. Imagine rival empires of medicine bottles, office chairs, bicycles, rolled-up carpets, wheelie suitcases, safes, washing machines, fire extinguishers, and umbrellas.

The woman seated behind me on the train chatters on her phone the whole time, but never once mentions the crushed velvet of bees, or the remembered light reflected in their black eyes.

Howie Good
04 06 16