Silvi, 32, a card shark. Always looking for the hustle.
Tonight, she can be found in the small club downtown, wearing blue stilettoes and an ivory evening dress, a patterned shawl draped over her shoulders and Foofoo sitting on the booth seat next to her.
Her little dog, the kind that fits in a purse, the kind that some people call a "purse rat," his name was Foofoo. Yes. Cringe. But, really, we should feel sorry for Foofoo.
He never understood what this "hustle" was that Silvi was always looking for. She carried him around in her blinged-out, overpriced, leopard print hand bag and ruffled up his little head saying "Foofoo, there's the hustle. I see it. We're almost there..... Mama's gonna her her hustle."
There are so many creatures on the road this fall. They scare me quite often when I am driving. It is startling to suddenly catch sight of a little thing inching across the road, fluttering from spot to spot above the blacktop, or scurrying in zig zags on its tiny little nonexistent paws. My heart inside seizes, signaling my reflexes that soon they might be needed. And then, all at once, just as abruptly as it came, the tightness splits off and the warning disperses. Before me, remains. The curled, dried leaves as they stick to the road, taunting and stooging, their spirits aglow.
I saw at least two bumble bees today On heads of pink-red clover. They were moving slowly And they weren't buzzing.
The air isn't fresh and crisp The way fall air should be. It doesn't nip at my cheeks in the morning Nor make me wish I'd put a jacket on when I go out to lock up the chickens at dusk.
Leaves are reluctantly accumulating on the ground Hardwoods are shifting to reds and yellows But the turning leaves just aren't convincing The lack of bird song isn't fitting, instead it's comfortless.
The sunlight isn't golden in that flawless autumn way It doesn't illuminate grey-brown branches and weathered siding It doesn't warm and slow the day until time stops in the glowing syrup of autumn afternoons When high schoolers abandon homework for walking into town and lingering in the grass.
I was so tempted, this evening, to slip away into the autumn night.
The stars just beginning to peek out from behind their daylight hiding places.
The breeze cool, just a touch of chilly, not yet cold.
This sweater thick, and warm, and comforting.
Find a bed of fallen leaves to curl up in.
Place my head at the base of a knowing tree.
Close my eyes, and curl up.
Sleep until the warm sunlight wakes me.
But I betrayed my soul, my gentler spirit, and I entered the heated house where my relatives held grudges, expected homework, and grew tired of me. I pushed my yearn for something truly wild down inside of me. For another night, another chance-- I'll wait.
I wish I'd slept outside tonight.
I wish I'd followed my footsteps, not my commands.
Your puddle of orange juice migrated down the slope of the table and began dribbling onto the floor. The drips made splat marks on the stained, white linoleum, like paint that the artist didn't notice when she was cleaning up.
Hours passed and the water evaporated, leaving a sticky patch, and then a film, where the juice had been.
Days passed and the dog sniffed at the tacky film, licking up part of it. Ants came and went, mysteriously transporting invisible portions of the dehydrated puddle. A few flies visited the splat marks and rubbed their front legs together, the way flies do. Charlie's sock-covered foot stepped on the stained linoleum and covered the spot where the juice had been.
Before long, no one remembered your puddle of spilled orange juice.