And pain is bureaucratic, where we find ourselves
along the Stockholm Archipelago, saying
thanks for taking care of me, and thanks
for giving me food. And then some other name for it
like elections, or waiting for elections. We called,
but it just went to your voice mail. We were
worried, as you were talking about money,
and we said you’ll have money again, sometime
later, but we weren’t sure, really, and perhaps you heard it
in our tone . . . so there’s a concept, and then
something to fill it. Everyone gets hurt or dies
and then is better right away. Things dodder
along, and sometimes memorably. We like that. And
why not want that again? You know what happens
when one tries to replicate the past—yes, but
what if one tries to replicate something that
didn’t work out all that well? That maybe this
completes it—like that time we pretended downtown
Denver was in Paris, and we could break up
over some wine and mixed blessings. And in this story
there are no characters, which is first a word
and then someone thinking, calling it The Dubious
Age. There are no dogs out there barking,
you realize. And then you think, I’m going
to be reasonable for the rest of the afternoon. I’m going
to cover my cough and clean my hands for more
than twenty seconds. When we were happiest,
we did such things. And we’ll be happy again, against
the backdrop of the mountains, ordering wine.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.
