THE SHOPPING PLAZA
My mom’s car is full of leaf beetles. For each beetle that flies back out of the
window, two new beetles appear. My mom does not acknowledge the leaf
beetles. She is late to meet my sister at the shopping plaza. My sister is waiting
at the shopping plaza. The shopping plaza is supposed to have silver spatulas
and discounted songbirds. She drives faster. The leaf beetles line my mom’s
wig. She has no leaves to give them. My mom’s baby blue SUV offers plenty—
napkins, Spanish ham, lipstick—but it holds no trees. The leaf beetles ignore
everything but my mom’s wig. They only want the wig. It’s a very expensive
wig. It’s the only wig she has.
THE STAND-UP COMIC
choked
on a bone
near the end of her routine
and died.
The crowd laughed
and clapped
at first, then
walked home.
That night, everyone
who was at the show
ate slower,
smaller bites.
They sat in front
of their static televisions
and stared like mannequins,
like air.
One fan named Jan, devout
from the crowd, attended
the comic’s funeral to deliver
the final punchline.
She loved her.
She wanted to
help. She wanted
to laugh again.
The hurdle
on the track
field leans
sleepily to the left.
The hurdle
on the track
field is impossible
to clear.
