Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Blank spaces

In which we are left wanting

I thought of you, dear Readers Reader, there in the dark, Christmas night on Fitchville River Road. A cloudy, sullen day had fallen into a black and claustrophobic night, but December in Ohio is like that, Christmas or not. The house behind me made up for the day's dull weather -- the windows, squares of light; the crowded cacophony of voices and TV and babies inside, the bright warmth. Still, standing by the cold car in this place about which I know everything and nothing, the fields beyond unseen and familiar, bumpy and fallow, stretching to the still and quiet woods. Calm, I guess you could say. Everything would be different if the stars were out, but we can only imagine them, somewhere above the stubborn clouds. I should open the car door and leave, drive back to another warm house and another bright Christmas. But I just needed to stand and listen with you, Readers Reader, you know? Because I thought for a moment there might be a poem trying to find us on that homely stretch of Fitchville River Road, and I didn't want to miss it, just in case. Christ, I wish we had found it. I'm still looking.

Think positive.

We've got to patch it up baby / Before we fall apart at the seams / We've got to patch it up baby / In the time we travel in our dreams

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