The day had crumpled around him, or so
it felt—as if he were paper and some
spastic had failed at origami. Show
me the trash bin, he thought. I’ll call it home.
Recycle me into confetti. Let
partygoers turn my desperate loss
to celebration. Strip me to stringlets
waxed, wound, boxed and passed off as dental floss.
Whatever you do, make sure humans can’t
recognize me. For a split second, mind
went blank. Silence. Somehow his ego’s chant
turned to prayer, as if stumbling on some kind
angel singing soft psalms of his real life.
He Facebooked, I love my amazing wife.
Roger Armbrust
July 18, 2010
