“I’m a prospector,” she almost whispered,
left eye closed, right eye gazing down the beer
bottle’s amber barrel tilted toward her
like a doctor at her microscope. “Here’s
where the truth lies, down deep, in reflective
foam. Where you have to search for it like gold
in dark streambeds.” I understood. Once lived
in lonely bars like this, like her, grown old
hiding from reality’s light. From love’s
responsibility and hope. “I keep
searching…keep searching…” I picked up her gloves
off the wet floor. Stuffed them in her coat. “Sleep’s
what you need now,” I told her. “I’m prospectus…”
she misspoke, bottle drinking, like Dad taught us.
Roger Armbrust
August 16, 2020
