cubiclea

He rocked back-and-forth using only his stomach muscles to push his face close enough to the window to see the street below. And when he exhaled the chair would float backwards and the sidewalk would slowly descend below the windowsill. Once again he was left alone to stroke the wooden arms rubbed smooth by his grandmother for a thousand years. In this moment of rest he could hear the boy below, his rubber soles twisting gravel into sand and the occasional, “I feel love, I feel love, I feel love, I feel love, I feeeeeeeeeel love,” high pitched and sincere. As the ginkgo leaves fluttered he crunched his tummy for the seventh time. His gentle smile slow-dollied towards the vanilla scented curtains. And for another glorious moment he would watch him dance, so smooth and happy was the boy on St. Augustine grass.

every curve
the lovers kiss
sagebrush songs
and cricket mist

basic fundamentals
posture
breathing
trust

he was a world champion
pulsing veins
lightning quick

but i was trained too
compassion my game
blue chalk corduroys
nothing to lose

Joe faintly heard a voice beneath her window, “Hey, would you like to go bowling with me?” But she was way too busy seething to pay any kind of attention to her androgynous voyeur. Or was he a friend? God, he felt so familiar. Oh don’t get distracted she thought to herself. Dammit! She wished super hard for a pair of binoculars so she could properly bid farewell to her stank ass relationship. Look at them slithering along the boardwalk on that wretched Schwinn. Grrr. Joe took a seat on her windowsill and stared at the Hudson River. Has it always been so calm? She closed her eyes and felt awkwardly content. A lucid memory of her father flickered softly. Weird. He was rooting in the grandstands. “Go baby, strike her out, find the sweet spot!” Her dad called her the Ace of Inwood. When she was on the mound she held the softball like a 16oz Ebonite. Joe’s form was totally nonconventional but it was fun! and it allowed her to detach from the pressure. She cradled the ball in both hands like Dick Weber on a Labor Day weekend, the scent of balsam fir and kids screaming in the bg, “More corn-on-the-cob, daddy, pleeease!” She rolled the ball with a smooth hook shot, hungry for the smoky taste of BBQ and lemonade. Joe smiled as the pins exploded. “Strike three!” the ump roared as the Ace of Inwood pumped her fist backwards nearly pitching herself from the ledge, no longer in a trance yet giggly and free. As her thighs warmed to the midday sun, Joe took a long look at the boy below. Love was looking up, his eyes shaded with a cupped hand patiently awaiting her reply.

It’s a new dawn, a new day and I feel good. I couldn’t get Nina Simone out of my head as I stood underneath the West Side Highway and fumbled for my church key. Today I would spend the day with Ramona, my neighbor on 155th, and we would fish for winter flounder and striped bass. “C’mon let’s go,” she said as I passed her the Dos Equis and lifted the big ass paint bucket full of patience.

She loved her new lighthouse, the circular staircase, the unobstructed view of the islands, this was going to be a good summer. But first she needed to make some money and she was hoping the fresh letter pressed calling card might open up some doors. TENDER on one side, phone number on the other. Sophia admired the simplicity of the font, the thickness of the stock, how easily it twirled in her fingers.