Photo by McKayla Crump on Unsplash
The map of Alaska I study is actually the state from above. I believe I can see the author I love sailing on a river. The city I stare at is Canadian. I adore her cleanliness, her bridges, her red townhouses. The champagne flute is hold which I took for glass is plastic. I sit near the hoststand in a restaurant waiting for you during your escape to the restroom. The country has become greener. It will never be the green it was before us. The table at which we meet is stacked with books. I tell you I want a certain publisher for my volume. It’s gonna cost me. I am eating a sandwich that ends up everywhere. Forgive me my poor manners. I am placed in charge of a black bear while you are away. Forgive me if I worry I’ll be mauled. I am running with the ball. I was born to play the field. It’s time to pass. I can’t find you among the obstructions and the overhangs. My mind veers off. I am placed in charge of entertaining you. Do you like where the words have led you thus far? Say you do. The morning is running away from me. You have somewhere you need to be. The coffee is not yet made. That’s my job. Say you do. Or say you don’t.
Richard George is a Tulane graduate whose work has appeared in Mystery Itch, HASH, Toho Journal and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. When not writing, he works as a probation officer. He lives in an apartment in Toms River, New Jersey.