two sentence stories
Two Sentence Stories
He's sitting next to me, fresh from school
and doubly dirty, his white uniform shirt
anything but and ten fingertips
tomatoes and cheese.
He wants to know what I'm typing,
why I typed Two Sentence Stories,
what does mediation mean
and why I've pulled out a picture of him
when he was still a smiling,
roly-poly Buddha with blue locomotive
in hand and marshmallow feet all Godzilla
on the poor red and blue wooden city.
I send him off to find me a green chocolate
and to ask his mother about Saint Aba Mina
and lost camels, anything for fifteen minutes
to get these words down before they're lost
between home runs and the philosophy
of hot fried chicken.
I.
I see a man.
He likes to drive a racecar.
Rain today, maybe tomorrow.
The man drapes a black shroud
over his black car.
II.
I see a cat.
It is black.
I hate my cat.
Every piece of rainbow kibble
comes up a wet, sickly brown. Soon,
I will bury her
in the wet, dark earth.
III.
I see a fish.
It is funny because it always swims upside down.
My son is singing now, Chinese numbers,
his small fingers seeking his own song
on my piano. Jingles Bells
on his right hand, G minor chord
on his left, and for once my ears
are not so tired. I call to him,
Son... son but he's fixed
like statue to his task, that is,
until he comes back to me
and my typing, he's trying to read
7 and type how do you do this dad
and can i play with your computer,
i'm afraid he will yank out my wireless card
or x remove the `~ poem from my screen
before I even hit "save"
and even then I smile because I'm
willing to give up anything a d do
for