the first thought to my mind
is usually a lie, or, better to say, a story: “Officer, my wife, in labor, backseat, hospital, must.” His compassion turns quick to judgment, though, his tone sharp as dentistry announcing, “That back seat is empty.”
The yard’s grass tickles softly underfoot, intimate as a housekeeper, a cool spring afternoon harboring a warm hint of summer. A day quiet as an empty house. I ripen like a lemon, sourness veiled behind a sunny yellow rind. I worry my days like a crossword puzzle, picking at each empty square for the correct response, the proper pose.
Late shadows scatter like mice. Ivy rustles on the vine. A house becomes a home when no place remains to hide secrets. What can a story, or, better, a lie, not tell us? Burn me in effigy, if it’s all so bad. Sprinkle the dummy’s ashes into the blue mouth of the Pacific, let the waves chew and consider until no taste remains.