Literature
Brother, have I lost it?
Notebooks scatter, cluttering a desk that’s been a mess for months.
A Laptop that cost seven hundred dollars—four to five documents open,
all empty spaces.
Wheels stutter over a bump,
caught by the carpet,
as she stands up.
She leaves the chair there,
pointing toward the door for when she’s ready to come back.
Engine, headlights on,
P shifts to R to D.
Norwalk.
Street lights,
green, yellow, red.
Street lamps,
on, flickering, dead.
Nava Street,
her best friend’s old house.
She doesn’t stop to look in the rearview,
he’s not living anymore.
Shoemaker Ave,
she’s close now.
It’s a dead end—
Zimmerman Park.
Tires roll past empty stalls.
She tucks the car between houses and the railroad tracks.
She twists the key.
The ignition dies.
Both hands grip the steering wheel,
then release as she slumps back.
The throat clamps.
She clears it.
She opens the door and steps out.
Asphalt—she drags her feet,
until she reaches the curb.
She turns,
sits,
and looks right.
John Glenn High
