could identify both its virus and
disease names. Before our painter, Mark came and fingered the hairline cracks in my office walls, not
erasing, but following their lead and then
from the left and the right of them
gouged a valley, making plaster and lathe
hills of flat walls where a hand once held a pencil and signed a name, now illegible
in 1910. Before the room’s lamps were lit or beds turned down or the maid was buzzed for
kaboom! still meant hugs and high fives and you killed it
like hitting it out of the park
meant rubbing elbows with the guy next to you whose beer spilled a little on your knee though
neither of you cared. You both just let the sun shine
on your teeth still speckled with mustard,
probably too drunk to finish your hot dog.
Quiet in the stands meant all the fans were breathing together and who cared
really, what particles released.
Small specks of spit from the waitress’s lip landed on the table and we didn’t talk about it
Unlike now. It’s
very possible another buffet will never exist
which is really about time, don’t you think? Giving people more time to learn
xylophone or solitaire or xerox their bare asses on a copy machine.
Yellow, I think yellow is the color I’ll ask Mark to paint my office. It’s one color hard to find at the
Cindy Ostuni is a clinical social worker and writer living in Syracuse, NY. She is a recent graduate of the Syracuse Downtown Writer’s Center Pro Program for poetry. Her work has been published in The Pinch Journal, Unearthed, The Stone Canoe, and the Reader’s Write section of The Sun Magazine.