Crimsons
Bobolinko packs his basket with fried chicken, croutons, lime-aid, cherry pie and a Big Boy tomato, finds a private spot by the river, where oaks and maples have a quiet leaf chat. It’s delicious to sit alone, but with trees you’re never fully alone. Dusk crimsons the fading edge of a leafy afternoon.
Bobolinko Enters Heaven – and Leaves
I climb to what I think must be a door to the lowest floor of Heaven. At the top step, I knock, expecting a place of great joy, the moment at a surprise party when everyone yells surprise—only this moment lasts forever. What I see is Las Vegas. Casino streets. Ice sculptures challenge the desert to a duel. My Uncle Torvald who had died when I was seven has two women by him. He puts money down to spin a roulette wheel, doesn’t even wave. I return to the ground where neighbors sit in air-conditioned houses with humming nukers and clattery ice makers.
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